go follow @jacksprostate

Probably named Marge

Rather than doing a direct inversion (ie making the character the exact opposite, much tits -> no tits, etc) I think sort of an analogue would work better riffing off the motherly role Bob has, in combination with the group being for uterine cancer/ovarian cancer

The women come together, and they cry, cry, cry, over lost husbands, who left them because they got cancer, because overwhelmingly, men leave if their wife gets cancer, over lost relationships with children, who stayed but resent them, over lost Motherhood, that thing you were told was your worth but now you are told you're shit. Remaining Women Together. Despite. Despite despite despite.

What is it, about purposes. Want to see misery, see women fed their own physical oppression as lost salvation.

Marge, whatever her name is, her husband divorced her, left her with the kids and medical bills stacked as high as she is tall. She is thankful she still has her kids, it makes her feel like she's still worth something. She's had to try and get back into the workforce. No one wants to hire dear former stay at home mother Marge. She shows you her kids in her wallet in her purse and there are no pictures of her. There's a picture of her old husband, which she keeps to show her kids if they ask. They're old enough to go to school now, which is good, because it gives her more time to work. Life is hard, but she's doing her best.

Marge, who is on hormone therapy so she doesn't get those "side effects" she's heard about from other total hysterectomy patients, the future of early dementia and degeneration and horror. Who does pelvic floor exercises in hopes it will minimise the fallout of the surgery. Who carefully rips every hair out of her upper lip and chin because even if it would be normal for a woman, a woman whose gone through menopause, a woman at all — she knows, it's probably the estrogen tipping back over into testosterone, and she can't handle any more losses. She compensates. They all do.

The support group is her Me Time. It is the single hour plus half hour commute she can afford once a week for herself. So she gets here, and she cries, cries, cries, and the others cry with her, all over how their lives have fallen apart since they got ovarian cancer, got breast cancer, and their lives derailed because they can't be proper women anymore.

They cry in their waterproof makeup. Another product to promise womanhood. Identify yourself via consumption. Identify yourself by covering yourself up.

And when she finds fight club. When she finds something that says, jesus fuck. You are more than your children. You are more than your ability to have kids. You aren't a failed woman, that's a sack of shit you've been sold wholesale. When she finds something that promises her she will grow, achieve personhood, not because she was the ultimate martyr mother, not because she played the game of human or woman, but because it promises a freedom from all that, identification and repulsion of such sickening chains. When she stops worrying about her slightly deepened voice, and works to keep her dose even keel for her health, to avoid the toxic highs of accidentally juicing, rather than the lesser effects of a black lip hair or two. When she has a photo, not of herself in her wallet, but of the things she makes with other women from fight club, of the one view of the sunset from that one parking lot that she always thought was wonderful, when she has things in her wallet for her and her enjoyment. When she has corded muscle and a built up spine, when she sits her kids down and explains why they only see dad one weekend every other month, all the fun holidays, because dad decided staying with her through cancer was too hard even when she stayed with him through four lost jobs pissed away in alcohol and lottery tickets.

He'd signed up to fight me. The others, they've been avoiding it nowadays. They look at me with respect I don't think I've earned and fear I think I have. That kid, that angel faced baby, no one has seen him since I broke the third rule of fight club. It is my proximity to Tyler that protects me from retaliation, I think. Even though I've not seen him in weeks.

Bob is probably the only member of fight club who thinks I don't have balls.

Bob struggled with the sixth rule for a while. The first time I saw him in that basement, switched on over to his perfect heyday of a Tuesday, the first time I saw his tits swinging around you would have thought I saw god. There was the man who cradled me to sleep the past few years. There was the man who cracked open his miserable remains of his life to let me in, right into his large, loving chest.

I'm not sure, actually, if Bob thinks I don't have balls, or if he thinks I've accepted the cancer and chose to let them kill me. The way he looks at me sometimes, like I'm something admirable, like I'm a dead man walking. I wonder if we've become the same to each other. Does he see me how I see him?

Bob, the big moosie, the big cheesebread, he corners me after club sometimes. It's not so much that I let him as that with Tyler gone, no one is tugging me out. These guys, they think every move is purposeful. I'm just some plastic waste caught in the wind. Drifting. I've been left to run all this on my own, I know Tyler's out franchising, it boils something bad in me. And Bob is here, Bob's arms have always let me rest.

Bob, Bob, Bob. He's finally stopped trying to push his testosterone too hard. He says, he's seeking balance. He looks to me and I have nothing. He's not getting his tits cut open. He doesn't want to lose range of motion, he says, doesn't want to risk losing fight club.

He says, "I don't know what your name is. Not anymore. But, Cornelius, Tyler, you gave me something to wake up for. I think about the heat of the stage, now I can go to the dank hell of the basement. I think about my wife, I think about you. I think about how my perfect dehydrated shrink wrapped body would'nt've been able to beat you to shit fifteen minutes ago."

We are out on the steps of the bar, his voice is still coming in discordant with my ears a half dimension to the left.

I lean into him. I let him tuck my face between his tits, bare, warm and sweaty. I shudder and cry. I cry what's left of my brain out, and Bob holds me like I'm crystal, like I'm an antique glass penguin from the world's most prestigious menagerie. Like if he squeezes my skull too hard, it'll pop open like a zit, crack like an egg from an eagle pumped with DDT. I'm over easy. Sunny side up, he turns my face back to his and lets his tears fall into mine.

"God, you're crazy," Bob says, voice warbling, like it's some realization he's been slowly coming to, something he's not wanted to face, but now he has and he can get over it. "You're like, fifteen different cats in one tiny bag. You're not doing well at all."

I tell Bob, I'm sorry I don't have testicular cancer. I'm sorry I lied to you, Bob Paulson. I'm sorry I used your misery and sympathy to sleep like a baby. Like one of those little commercial angels.

Bob's eyes are small in his face, wet, crushed up by his cheeks and brows. His thumbs wipe the wrinkles from mine until I'm soft, inert like uncooked porcelain. If he wants me to be, I'll be it. I tell him that. Bob, if you want it, I'll chop my balls off. It would be fair. Fair like us strewn out on the baement floor.

"I already knew," Bob says. "That's why I knocked your head in tonight. It's okay."

It's not, I say.

Bob says, "It is. I told you, at some point, I started noticing. Maybe it was my fault I didn't notice before. You were miserable enough that I couldn't tell, though, and I think that makes the difference."

We cry on each other some more. We're sitting, I'm in his lap, but I push up to cry over his shoulder. It's different. I let myself clutch at his greased, hair. Bob, I tell him. Tyler left me, he brought me all the way here and he left me, but I think he's still around. I miss him. He treats me like dogshit, and I miss him.

Maybe it's because Bob's big, warm hand is holding, cradling me in my own head.

He says, "I think I know things about you that you don't like. I don't think you've ever knowingly spoken as much as you have just now, huh."

I'd love to say no. I do presentations at work. I tell single-serving friends on airplanes what I do. I read out the rules of fight club on nights I'm there and Tyler's not. I'd love to say no.

More and more, the things Tyler tells me take the place of who I was before.

as for making her look more like pitt, his eyes tend to be “squinty” when he smiles. also pretty prominent eye bags when he smiles. his eyebrows are set low, really close to the eyes and they have a downward tilt. he also has deep set smile lines when he grins w teeth. included some reference images below! good luck!!!

Not in a super explicit way. Women aren't really objectified, or directly and aggressively targeted. But the whole premise of fight club is still a poopy piss boy cry and moan club for straight* white cis*men. It's men who feel entitled to something. Something they feel postmodern society has taken from them. They feel powerless and therefore emasculated because a central part of their gender-identity is to be in power and by extension be in power of someone else (women). Instead, they find themselves powerless and dominated by their boss. They commit violence in order to reclaim their masculinity because boohoo big man caveman man can't cry so he has to commit domestic terrorism.

I mean there's a reason why so many incels flock to this text like flies to a corpse. It's the whole Entitled Man complex, which is inherently rooted in misogyny. Incels see themselves in a lot of Tyler's philosophy. Of course it's all meant as satire and all, but those messages are still there for those who choose to take them at face value.

I do think that putting a female perspective on this would be EXTREMELY interesting. But I think you at least have a tinker a bit with the framing and all.

I think it would be hard, because if you switch out the privileged group of men with the less privileged group of women in this scenario one-to-one, a lot of it starts to fall apart. It's set up to criticize modern ideas of masculinity. You're not supposed to root for project Mayhem. Tyler is the antagonist at the end of the story. And if you make them women you quickly end up in Has Feminism Gone Too Far?!! territory

Anyways it's not that I think it can't be done. I just think you need to be smart about it. There's a lot of different directions you could go. something something SCUM manifesto. hope this helps <3

maybe something something by reclaiming power through violence in a curropt system build on violence, you aren't actually changing anything. or something something even in pursute of feminist goals, women are often lead to turn on each other due to operating around a patriarchic society

and yeah I think it's important to have the same scheme of "underlying grievances valid" + "critiques and rejection somewhat valid" + "ill thought out and fundamentally useless execution of ideology that specifically lacks a concept of the future/long term"

I think that's easily solved by making her an anarchist (derogatory) which also doesn't deviate far from the original material and is entirely believable in the feminist context of the time