What?! Wednesday

I want to punch you, bro. An open letter to the FHRITP defenders.

Yeah, you. You over there thinking that #FHRITP is HILARIOUS.

Or whatever the fuck you’re thinking. Because seriously, what are you thinking?

Seriously. What world do you live in that it’s fine to surround a woman and harass her and that’s funny and that shouldn’t have any consequences and that’s “boys will be boys” or some bullshit?

I hear your brain twirly-whirlying already. FREE SPEECH! CAN’T TAKE A JOKE! cough. . .sputter. . .whirrrr. . .DON’T BE SO SENSITIVE.



I shouldn’t be so sensitive. Okay. Grab a chair. This is gonna take a minute.

Your professor is turning 44 years old next week. BRING PRESENTS! and cake, because we can all agree that cake is delicious. How many times have I been catcalled in my life? I can’t count them. I’ve been walking alone– doing stuff like having a good day, listening to some cool tunes on my music machine, buying groceries, going for a walk, smelling some flowers and in general, you know. . .existing. Then BOOM– it’s fun go times. I’ve been catcalled at everything from 14% body fat to 250 pounds, from redhead to raven haired, from goth princess to tattooed librarian looking woman of a certain age.

~Sometimes, it’s actually a circa-1948 wolf whistle from a dude driving by.

~Sometimes, it’s a very articulate and well put “Hey, nice tits.” from a grown man in a business suit.

~Sometimes, it’s a “Hello mami!” in a funny voice from one of a group of six teenagers who then scream with laughter as they walk away while I’m by myself after dark walking home from the subway.

~One time, it was a group of grown ass men squeezing by me in a crowded Chinatown restaurant as I waited for a table. I’d taken special care to get ready that night. I was super proud of how I looked. They leered and said “nice outfit.” That’s not what they meant.

and that’s all in the last week.

Each time, I felt really fucking gross afterward. In every instance, I was literally just existing. Just going about my business, but these dudbros decided I was there for their amusement. It used to embarrass me, it used to make me question what I’d worn, or if I should be out alone by myself after dark, or if I should have done whatever.

Now it enrages me. My blood boils. I’m most liable to snap back verbally at y’all. Usually this leads to “you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.” Well, the thing is, I do. I do because I didn’t ask for your opinion. I didn’t ask for you to take a good long hard look at my tits and realllly drink them in, but you did. I didn’t ask for you to tell me exactly what you thought of my ass, but you did. I don’t give a flying fiddler’s fuck what you think of my outfit. You were the asshole. So, guess what you get in return. The bitch. What did you expect? Because I’m pretty sure I know the answer here. You expected fear. You expected control. You expected me to blush, or giggle, or roll over like a fucking puppy and offer you my belly. Nope. The bitch is gonna come at you, bro. You made her. The bitch you made.

Congratulations, fuckos.

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