Men: they're impossible; every last one of them. Down to their last miserable moments they are
the nosiest, most condescending and infuriating cockroaches ever to walk the earth. It's always:
"What is it Ophelia?" "What is it between you Ophelia?" "How now Ophelia?" "I hope it didn't
involve and princes…Ophelia" Because it's not like we live in a castle or anything! I swear,
Denmark's gone to hell in a hand-basket and I still can't go five steps without being interrogated
about my unladylike intentions. Don't these people have anything better to do?
Laertes has good intentions, sure, but good intentions don't excuse his need to analyse every
aspect of my love life. "Fear it!" He says, "Be wary!" And then he heads off to France with his
pockets full of money, for whores of course. Maybe if he caught syphilis he'd stop preaching
about virtue. You know, it's hard to stick up your nose in that demeaning way he does when it's
rotted off. O what a cruel irony that would be.
And what's this about Hamlet and "His greatness weighed?" Does he mean to say that I
shouldn't court the crown prince of Denmark? Laertes, maybe you could rephrase that, perhaps
you should say something that makes an ounce of sense. Of course I thought about that! In fact,
my first thought was about how convenient it was that besides being unbelievably smart and
deeply poetic, my boyfriend happened to be rich, powerful and privileged. I thought
appearances were important in this family, but of course, I should have know being a suitor for
the future king wouldn't make up for being -gasp- a woman! Even if it went south before that,
could I not get a few priceless pieces of jewellery or some royal tokens while it lasts? I doubt
he'd argue if I offered to pay for his prostitutes.
And it's not like that's the end of it, heavens no, that's when my overbearing father
waltzes in, home at last from his job kissing the king's royal backside and it's the same
story. Protect your honour, have higher standards, go to, go to. Too bad prince dark and gloomy
didn't stay sane long enough for me to become queen. Then it would be me telling these sexist
jerks what to do.
Then I get a speech about how I am mistaking sparks for fire and I don't understand
myself, because he understands me so well. Yes father, I planned to sleep with Hamlet, just to
ruin the family image, and to bother you, don't forget. Maybe tomorrow I'll go after Fortinbras; I
just love a man with an army of outlaws. It's not my fault; I've probably developed a complex
from constantly being called a slut.
Could you really blame me, even if I was? I'm a woman damn-it, I have needs! Forgive
me if being told to behave and play hard to get was getting on my nerves. Don't you know every
girl dreams of having a romantic fling with prince charming, and though the charming part is
debatable, when you live in a castle full of sweaty, hairy barbarians who eat more pork in a week
than most do in ten years, then hey, one out of two's not bad. At least he can speak without
spitting or swearing.
That, however, is not getting him off the hook this time, that boy is in serious trouble. He
mopes; he babbles excessively, he spins philosophy on heaven and hell: what a drag. It's
impressive, but enough already. By all means, he can keep mourning, but he's never around
anymore and it's not a very meaningful relationship if he's going to turn around and lose his
marbles every time someone bites it.
And then, he has the nerve to speak to me like he does. I was reading the Bible, damn-it,
not spitting on someone's grave, but he has to embarrass me anyway.
"Nunnery," He says, where does he get off? What should I go to a brothel or a nunnery
for? Not for any reason he'd have anything to do with; I'll tell you that! He spent so much time
writing in his little notebook that getting down and dirty to anything good was beyond
impossible! I suppose it satisfies some quota of times a day I should be called a whore so he can
start harping on about how I breed sinners and paint over my flaws with makeup; how I'm a
treacherous, mischievous wench. The nerve! I showered him affection, I took his sappy letters
and his stupid gifts; I gave them back, sure, but that's no reason for his whole view of women to
crumble. It's because his mother didn't discipline him enough. I'd have had him out in the barn
shovelling pig manure the second he dared think most of those things he says to her. Obviously
the man's a few cards short of a deck, I bet next he'll be obsessively washing his hands and
trying to kill the king.