I Grew Up Screaming Misogynistic Lyrics — And Now I’m a Feminist Who Still Knows Every Word

When I was fourteen, my favourite song started with a beat that made me feel unstoppable. It was California by Hollywood Undead — loud, aggressive, confident, and so dripping in misogyny that it practically left a stain.

“Pussy like it’s business.”

“Work it like it’s fitness.”

“Fuck it ’til I’m dickless.”

At fifteen, I didn’t flinch. I screamed those lyrics like rebellion, like confidence, like proof that I wasn’t a prude. The more shocking the words, the more powerful I felt — even though the power wasn’t mine. It was theirs. I was just borrowing it, mistaking objectification for audacity.

And here’s the kicker: I still love that song.

Even now, I’ll be on the treadmill, gangsta rap shaking the walls, mouthing every word like muscle memory. I’m a feminist who fights misogyny for breakfast — and still sings along to it by lunch.

We Were Raised on Contradictions

Millennial women were raised in a cultural blender. We were told “Girl Power!” by the Spice Girls and “Lose 10lbs in 10 Days!” by every glossy magazine. We were taught to be confident but quiet, sexy but not slutty, strong but never intimidating.

We grew up with Smack That, Lollipop, Get Low, and California blasting through our headphones. We watched men on MTV pour champagne over women’s asses and call it luxury.

We watched Chris Evans weigh Victoria Beckham on TV to see if she’d “lost the baby weight.”

That’s the world that shaped us.

And yet, we became the generation that said no more.

The women who built the MeToo movement.

The ones who made “gaslighting” a mainstream word.

The ones who taught consent workshops, pushed for equal pay, and created body-positive campaigns.

We are the most feminist generation — and the most conflicted.

The Bad Boy Era That Never Really Ended

It wasn’t just music. It was the men we were told to find magnetic.

Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Damon from The Vampire Diaries. Chuck Bass from Gossip Girl.

They were manipulative, possessive, damaged — but we were told that meant depth.

We didn’t just want the bad boy. We wanted to fix him. To be the one girl who tamed him. The one he’d never hurt.

And in some ways, that desire never left.

I listen to gangsta rap when I lift weights.

I read dark romances where the hero is morally grey, dangerous, dominant — but still soft for the one woman who sees through him.

I love being dominated in bed, by someone I trust completely.

And I’ll still tell a man to shut the fuck up if he says, “She was asking for it.”

We are the products of our contradictions.

We fight misogyny, but we were raised to find it interesting.

The Cultural Hangover

When I read those California lyrics now, I almost laugh. It’s so cartoonishly explicit it borders on parody — and yet, I know exactly why it thrilled me. Because that was how teenage girls were taught to feel powerful: through proximity to male chaos.

If you could handle the shock, you were “one of the boys.” If you cringed, you were uptight.

Every “bitch” in a lyric became a test.

Could you take the joke? Could you play along? Could you be cool about it?

Now, in our thirties, we’re still unlearning those reflexes.

We champion body positivity but still criticise our thighs.

We preach self-love but still apologise for taking up space.

We want to feel safe — and yet we’re addicted to the thrill of the unsafe, because that’s what we were taught passion feels like.

That’s not hypocrisy. That’s recovery.

The Feminist Who Still Sings Along

I can critique Hollywood Undead’s misogyny and still feel nostalgic for how California made me feel in 2008. That doesn’t make me less feminist — it makes me honest.

Feminism doesn’t erase your past or your pleasure; it gives you the language to understand it.

It’s why I can blast gangsta rap at the gym and still write essays about rape culture.

It’s why I can enjoy a dark romance where the man is in control — because I know I am the one choosing it.

It’s why I can laugh at my teenage self for thinking lyrics like that were empowering — while forgiving her for not knowing better.

And yet, there’s a line.

I can still sing Hollywood Undead without shame, but I won’t stream Chris Brown. I won’t defend Diddy. I won’t make excuses for R. Kelly.

There’s a difference between consuming problematic art and funding abusers. Between nostalgia and complicity.

I’ll dance to fictional chaos — not real-world cruelty.

That’s the boundary. That’s the growth.

We grew up in a world that told us our worth was in how well we could survive being objectified. The miracle is that we outgrew it at all.

Owning the Contradictions

Being a millennial woman means living in constant duality:

We want safety but crave thrill.

We love softness but need to prove strength.

We fight for women’s rights but still sing the songs that demean us because they shaped who we are.

It’s okay to be both — the girl who screamed “Fuck it ’til I’m dickless!” at fifteen and the woman who now tells her younger self, you deserved better lyrics than that.

The key difference now?

We’re aware.

Awareness doesn’t ruin the song. It reframes it.

It lets us enjoy the beat without buying the message.

It lets us dance — but on our own terms.

So Let’s Talk About It

Do you still love music that makes you cringe when you really listen?

Do you ever defend something from your youth you know was problematic?

Do you still catch yourself drawn to the “bad boy,” even though you can spot a walking red flag from space?

It doesn’t make you less feminist.

It makes you real.

We were soaked in this culture — now we’re wringing it out.

So the next time California comes on shuffle, maybe you still sing every word. Maybe you roll your eyes. Maybe you do both.

That’s what being a millennial feminist looks like:

still singing, still thinking, still unlearning — one chorus at a time.