A Cure for Divine Feminine Energy

All over the internet, we see praises for the Divine Feminine, a path that encourages women to lean into their allegedly natural state. To be a woman is to receive, they say, and being in a receptive state of mind will spiritually magnetize opportunities to you. Jobs offerings, boyfriends, money, the favor of the Universe. After discovering that the Divine Feminine is a serious belief, I became very sour. Irritated. One might even say curmudgeonly. The smoking dumpster fire of gender essentialism is visible everywhere you turn, thus, in rebellion, I’ve embraced my true feminine nature, the Curmudgeonly Feminine.

Tenets of the Divine Curmudgeon Philosophy:

The curmudgeonly woman does not strive for lightness. True, she may wear pink, flouncy dresses, delicate jewelry, and bows in her hair, but these choices make no indent on the curmudgeonly spirit. The only accessory she doesn’t allow herself is horse blinders– she walks with heavy, stomping steps, burdened by misanthropy at the flailing world.

A curmudgeonly woman is not an optimist. She knows well the value of negativity, as acknowledgment of the worst case scenario is prudent and beneficial for planning. Is the curmudgeonly woman always to be depressed? Well, at times she may be, and this is the freedom of the curmudgeon way. The Divine Curmudgeon is not hampered by the dreadful pressure to always be happy and the shame of having emotional depth or range beyond the palatably lighthearted.

Curmudgeonly women do not particularly care about being liked or desired. They are not receptive, except for on occasions they may order a donut on GrubHub, pick it up at their doorstep, and receive it with their mouths. Grand but vapid gifts and compliments might seem like princess treatment to Divine Feminine women, but the Divine Curmudgeon does not wait to receive what she needs. She does not yearn to receive what she wants. She does not submit to receive what is unsolicited.

The curmudgeonly woman does not follow the sacred patterns of nature. While the woman in tune with her Divine Feminine energy skips work every week she’s on her period to sit in front of her vanity, sip matcha, and contemplate the endearing nature of her weakness, the Divine Curmudgeon takes a fucking Advil. She is not happy with physical discomfort, does not warp her brain to see the blatantly insufferable as a gift, and seeks a better reality than the one afforded her.

A curmudgeonly woman swears, not as a performance of edginess, but out of pure, honest rancor and loathing.

A devout Curmudgeon will take heed that feminine intuition is a myth, and that a strong premonition she had based on a dream involving Marie Antionette’s wig collection is not a justification to start a business, take up gardening, or convert to Buddhism. Even if Marie Antionette appeared as a sleep paralysis demon.

The Divine Curmudgeon takes inspiration not from the Mother or Maiden, but from the Hag and the Crone. Her visceral calling is to retire to a bog someday, unbothered by the issues plaguing contiguous society.

Thus the curmudgeonly woman carries out her curmudgeonly life. Though miserable on the surface, she is impervious to flattery, delusion, and foolhardy miscalculations of fate. She is a woman in a way women aren’t allowed to be. After doing her service as a swamp witch, when her arthritic joints have crumbled beyond repair, after making one last gripe about her osteoporosis, she expires, and is buried under a tombstone reading “Divinely Dead.”