Brain Champlin explains why the female characters in certain male-written fiction are not like actual women at all, and urges chicks everywhere to chill the fuck out:
instead of whining about what you aren’t, why don’t you think for a minute about what you are? You are the intellectual landscape of the story, its cerebral crux; without you, there would be no story. And look–your roles are so diverse! There you are, standing cross-armed at the front door as we pull up the drive. There you are again, asking vague metaphysical questions in bed while you stretch across us to retrieve a silky undergarment. And there you are again, pitter-pattering unseen this time across the hardwoods of the apartment above us, perhaps playing a Bach piece on the piano and stopping occasionally to murmur something unintelligible to what we think might be your cat.