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In the space of two minutes: “nice tits!” “sweetheart, do you have a jacket? Because you need a jacket,” and “Hey mama, what’s up?”
A) You’re an asshole, clearly.
B) It might be cloudy, but you might have noticed that I’m carrying a gigantic, heavy satchel, and I just ran up some stairs. Because of this, I am feeling very warm, and have taken off my hoodie. You may be concerned about my short-sleeved shirt, but I assure you I know what’s best for me, and what makes me comfortable. Also, I’m not your sweetheart you fucking dickpenis.
C) Really? Why would I even respond to being called “mama” by a stranger? Not really into the Oedipal thing. I will say, though, your confused expression as I began to vigorously pick my nose and make eye contact was amusing.
And for all the “what were you wearing” haters, cargo pants. Baggy cargo pants, a long, not-low cut tank top with one-inch wide straps, a stained hoodie wrapped around my waist, disheveled hair, glasses, and a gigantic messenger bag-probably the size of an English bulldog. I shit you not. Fuck you, patriarchy, you can’t pin this shit on me, and I swear to god I WILL take you down.
Here’s to safe streets for all.
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