Boygenius & A Bathroom Girl

There is a unique magic that exists in the dimly lit confines of the women's bathroom of a shitty bar. It is a feminist breeding ground that creates a special comradery and community, binding together slightly inebriated women of all backgrounds. As I balled my eyes out in a bathroom stall after the Boygenius concert , I was approached by a green-haired girl with a thick Italian accent : "You okay girl?" I responded : "Definitely not." She responded back : "Girl, same!". And just like that, in that moment, we were no longer strangers, but familiars, two feminine souls tragically bonded the universal experience of being "not ok".

She'd also attended the concert and somewhere between a couple of jokes and a shared love of Boygenius had begun to delve into our personal lives. I'd told her how Letter to a Dead Poet always provokes nothing less but a deep sob. The words are for me, excruciatingly on point. I elaborated tying the emotional transmission of the lyrics : You think you're a good person because you won't punch me in the stomach... I told you I think you're special and you said that I was selfish... I wanna be happy I'm ready" to a ten-minute consolidated yet detailed account of the past year. Green-Hair's mouth remained ajar for most of this, releasing a large gasp at regular 3 minute intervals. "Horrifying. And I thought I had it bad as a depressed bisexual." I raised by eyebrows and shrugged. "After this, I'm an aspiring bisexual.". She laughed, as what I can only describe as a slightly homoerotic tension had started to fill the room. She grabbed my phone and pulled out the namecard for the name of the person I'd been talking about, typing his number into her phone threatening to yell at him "On behalf of all women". The thought played briefly on my mind, but Catholic guilt had snatched the idea out of my head almost as soon as she'd spoken it. I thanked her for alcohol-fueled urge to ferociously stand up for me, but politely declined. "It's bad karma."

She'd gone on to tell me about her conflicting feelings about Father's Day, her love of Thumbs by Lucy Dacus, and complicated relationship models. It had felt like hours had passed. But it had only been a few minutes. When Green-Hair reached for her paper towel, I knew it was signaling the end of our time together. I sighed, grabbing my handbag from the ledge of the sink. We hugged as the bathroom light flickered above us. "Bestie, you're fucking amazing. I feel so much better. I'm so glad we met." said Green-Hair as she made her way out of the bathroom. I smiled and said : "Same. You too girl!" . I wet my hands, wiping away the run-off mascara from underneath my eye. One rogue tear escaped , but this one would be for Green Hair, my bitch, my bathroom best friend, and for the gratitude I held of the redemptive power of feminism and female friendships. Why exactly was Letter to a Dead Poet written I'd asked myself in the car ride home? It must've been to bring women together.