I awaken from my beauty sleep, remove my satin eye mask and straighten out my nightgown before stepping out of my bed to look in the mirror and observe my figure.

Hmmm…I should be skinnier.

I need to look like a frail little bird in need of a Big Strong Man to carry me out of my nest and caress me with his rough man hands. Tweet tweet!

I decide to skip breakfast to make room for the comments and phrases the men in my life will say that make complete and utter sense; I eat that nourishment right up!

“Smile for me sweetie,” “nice ass,” and inaudible roars and purrs accompanied by loud lip smacking. I feel the most seen and valued when I get this kind of attention from men.

I get ready to start my day with my routine manifestation: Men are superior. Men are better than women. Women will never be better than men.

I chant in a singsong, hyper-feminine voice that allows my mind, body and soul to fully become inferior to the male species.

I put on a pink dress and tie my hair with a bow—I am a woman with style—and make my way to the kitchen, where I belong.

As I start washing the dishes, I think about all of the hopes and dreams I have for my future: I will become a loyal housewife who is completely devoted to her loving husband, her eight children and nothing else. Because having a personality, a career or a life outside the home would give a woman too much independence in a man’s world.

I finish my house chores—dusting the fine china, sweeping and mopping the floors, scrubbing the toilets, washing and folding the laundry; typical 21st-century woman tasks, of course—and then proceed to gaze outside my window at the white powder cascading from the gray clouds in the sky and beginning to pile up on my doorstep.

I need a Big Strong Man to help me shovel my driveway. I cannot do anything for myself! They don’t call it “manpower” for nothing—men do have all the power.

I can only imagine the struggle those poor, independent, hipster, feminist, women will suffer through today without men to help them push their cars out of the snow or even just pump gas in these heinous weather conditions. Of course, I can’t relate because I don’t have my licence—it’s a man’s job to drive the lady around after all.

I retrieve my diary, adorned with pink sequins and faux fur, and begin doodling my dream wedding dress—I am already 21 years old, basically an old maid. But I know I will find the right man to take my hand in marriage and pierce my flower.

My ideal dress may be considered “conservative” by those tattooed, vaping feminists, but I don’t care what they have to say. I imagine long sleeves and a high neckline accompanying my luscious tulle skirt layered with thick fabrics overtop of my puffy white pantaloons—all pure white, and as pure as I am.

As I finish embossing the bodice on the page, I realize it is already dark out. No time to go outside for a quick stroll—women should never walk outside in the dark alone and a man must be present at all times.

I change back into my nightgown and prepare my body for slumber. I repeat my daily manifestation once more: Men are superior. Men are better than women. Women will never be better than men.

The only thing I know as a woman is that I know nothing. But if there’s one thing I am certain about, it is that men are, in fact, the supreme gender.