 The ice clinks in my glass as I swirl the whiskey, hoping to drown both the heat of summer and the waves of feminist rage. I was called a sexist today, adding to the string of epitasts that carved the image of the raiding feminist. But you cannot understand my rage. I rage at the fact that when a man with power calls me sexist, my only recourse is to smile. I rage at the public mockery of women and girls and at the secret moments of oppression each must carry in their heart. There's not enough ice to cool the rage because, as you know, there is a drought.