If you tell the world that you’re “getting money”, we won’t believe you.
If your friend is wearing a dress on a night out, you too are wearing a dress or equivalent separates.
You are allowed to kiss your boyfriend right in front of me. You are not allowed to run your nose along his neck repeatedly, taking audible whiffs.
Instagram video should not be the first we’ve seen your overbite/gap, cocked-eye, bowed leg, cleft lip or the like. Keep those selfies true to the game.
Your favorite movie cannot be Romeo Must Die.
Saturday night I was meeting old friends at a bar and it started pouring. I began hopping from awning to awning when the rain let up a little. Two guys standing under the cover of a food cart yelled “Come here! Get shelter with us! Big titties! Big titties!” and when I rightfully ignored them, speeding past, they started screaming “FAT! FAT! FAT!” at me and into the ever-growing distance between us.
This is what it means to be a woman walking the streets of NYC. This case of street harassment is not even that extreme. But even if a woman walks by and you say “hi, what’s your name?” or “wow, beautiful” or “nice nice niceeeee” it isn’t a compliment. It NEVER makes us feel beautiful. It makes us feel like prey.
I didn’t get dressed this morning FOR YOU. I don’t wear lipstick FOR YOU. I wasn’t born with a face FOR YOU. I didn’t grow boobs FOR YOU.
I carry around a self-defense keychain. It’s in the shape of a cat and it could gouge a man’s eyes out. I carry it around everywhere. FOR YOU.