By Ana Penavic
I am tired of cab drivers telling me I have nice legs, trying to shove a Snickers bar in my mouth, asking for my hand in marriage, asking me for their son’s hand in marriage, or asking me if I am a virgin. I am tired of remembering the time a waiter pulled me into a closet when I was on my way to the bathroom and forcibly kissed me, at ten years old. I am tired of the random comments, piercing whistles, and unblinking stares. But most of all, I am tired of the aftermath, the gratification they feel when they complete their word-gasm and cum all over my existence. And why is it that after all I have to hear and experience it is up to me—the woman, the girl, the female—to smile, politely refuse, and then thank them? No thank you, sir, I do not want to marry you. No thank you, please stop shoving a candy bar in my mouth. Let me be a raging bitch to their soft-spoken “generosity.” Let my conditioned femininity leap out of the cab instead of sitting in silence—instead of internally raging. Let me not pay the cab fare after the guy laughs while asking about my virginity. Let the next me be stronger and demand that they stop. But most of all, let there not be a next time.