Monday, January 28, 2013

An Open Letter to Men

Dear Men,

When I’m walking down the street, don’t catcall me, and especially don't get mad at me when I ignore said catcall. What’s your end game with that plan, anyway? Do you think I’m going to be enchanted by some dude who yells “NICE ASS” at me on the street? Even if you just want me to smile and say “THANK YOU,” then fuck YOU. I didn’t ask for your pointless dude-thoughts to be shouted at me while I’m trying to get somewhere, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to thank you for them. I don’t care if you think my ass is nice or not, and I certainly don’t want your opinion on it shouted at me. Believe it or not I did not wake up thinking “WOW, I AM GOING TO PUT ON THESE PANTS FOR WORK IN HOPES THAT SOME RANDOM GUY ON THE CORNER OF 8TH AND CLUELESS HOLLERS AT ME!"

When I’m at the bar talking to my girl friends, and you start talking to me, do not get offended if I politely try to squirm out of the conversation. Even if I loudly and impolitely yell “NO” in your face, do not get offended. You’re not the first idiot that’s tried to get in my pants with a one-liner, and you certainly won’t be the last, so please excuse me if I’m not cordial and accommodating as if I've never heard this before. Wow, you really blow me away with your creativity. If you then proceed to call me a bitch, and tell me that I should appreciate when a “nice guy” like you comes up to me, then guess what? Surprise! You’re not a nice guy! I’m not some cold, callous monster of the deep who goes around eating man hearts in my quest to kill all nice guys of the world; you’re actually just a dick.

If I decide to walk down the street in a t-shirt and shorts, don’t tell me it’s my fault you hit on me. Use that giant pink mass that’s rattling around in your skull and make the decision to leave me alone. If I wanted you to go near me with your penis, then I’d ask. If I’m wearing a skirt, I’m wearing a skirt. I’m not wearing a sign that says “HAVE SEX WITH ME” or “STALK MY LIFE.” Your semen must be acting as a hallucinogenic drug because guess what? The clothes I’m wearing are just clothes. Nothing more, nothing less. Not a “LET’S HAVE SEX” sign, not a penis magnet, not a finger beckoning “COME HERE AND TALK TO ME,”; just some quality fabric covering my vagina.

If I actually talk to you for a few minutes at a bar out of pure politeness, don’t get mad if nothing else happens. Talking doesn’t equal sex. If you buy me a drink, and I drink it, and then nothing more happens, don’t get pissed. If you buy me a drink and I say I don't want it, don't get bitter or offended - YOU bought the drink. I did not ask for it. You can see I have my own drink. If I tell you I’m not interested or that I have a boyfriend, just fucking listen to me. Anything you incorrectly infer past that point is your own damn fault, so don’t call me a bitch when I reject your advances. I owe you nothing.

You all need to stop thinking that if you just stick it out long enough, that if you harass us properly for just the right amount of time, that we’ll spring open like a safe and pour ourselves upon you.

Nope.

That won’t happen. It’s never going to happen.

Got it? This is all very easy to remember. You know how you guys walk around and no one yells at you, or tells you to crack a smile, or touches your ass on the train? Do that.

Sincerely,

Me

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