That's not what Lee was expecting and it's difficult for her to compose her thoughts when she's this drunk. They might have to talk about this sometime when she's sober. "I suppose," she says. "Being a woman is, it's — easier, but... more dangerous. That makes sense?"
"Are we discussing my favourite subject?" Tzipporah asks. She's closer to Lee's age, petite, skinny, dark hair, currently dressed as an angel, complete with wings. Not a New York native judging by her accent. She leans so far over the back of the couch in between the two of them that she's nearly upside-down, shedding fake feathers everywhere. Lee looks at her blankly, and she clarifies cheerfully, "Hating men." She manages to pat both of them on the head at once. "Present company excluded, of course."
"Then no," Lee says, "no one hates men."
"Can we hate The Man?"
Lee is casting about for another drink, which someone helpfully deposits in her hand. "Which man? What's the difference?" Lee you are the worst hippie.