All stereotypes turn out to be true. This is a horrifying thing about life. All those things you fought against as a youth: you begin to realize they're stereotypes because they're true.
Nothing is ever simple. What do you do when you discover you like parts of the role you're trying to escape?
Out with stereotypes, feminism proclaims. But stereotypes are the west's stunning sexual personae, the vehicles of art's assault against nature. The moment there is imagination, there is myth.
Do you really have to be the ice queen intellectual or the slut whore? Isn't there some way to be both?