I am Totally psychic

So I've finally gotten around to reading my dusty old '60s copy of Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique over the past two weeks or so, and then today I saw on a newspaper that she died yesterday. (Please forgive me, fellow feminists, I read the opening chapter "The Problem That Has No Name" years ago, OK? The rest of the book pretty much expounds on that chapter.)
Did I cause her to die? No; I am merely psychic. This is just like the time I was wearing my Johnny Cash T-shirt one sunny morning and then learned that JC had just gone to meet the other JC. And then I felt like That Guy for wearing the shirt. But even worse, JC was dead. And all they cared about on Howard Stern that morning was that John Ritter had also died. Please!!! And now all anyone cares about is that Grandpa Munster died! Who had more of an impact, Grandpa Munster, or Betty Friedan?!?! People are dumb.
But I digress. Reading The Feminine Mystique, it seems we've come a long way, baby, so much that it's hard to imagine the world she lays out for us in the book. But I do still know a few women who are living very limited domestic lives like the ones described in the book. Ah well, their loss. I have my own shit to do now, see you guys later.
B-Fried, R.I.P., holla at the suffragists & represent in the afterlife.