BACK OFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

From Bitter:

My mother always told me not to be a bitter woman; don’t hate men. She tells me to take responsibility for the role I play in my failed relationships. Men tell you who they are when you meet them and women think they can change them. Thank you mom, for the advice but it’s getting pretty difficult to remain sweet and smile things off, rather than become bitter like the ripest lemon. Because every time I walk down the street, a man/some men/some boys view my body as a receptacle for their mental waste. I become some kind of hip hop version of Lolita for old, tooth-less black men, and some kind of wild leaopard- Foxy brown concoction for white men in business suits in downtown D.C. I become anything but who I am. Incestuous desires are placed on me; slimy tongues are waved at me. Men in cars beep in synchronized melodies.

I never consented to this endless male conquest for entry into my vagina. After all, this is the fact of the matter. The deepest fact that we all know. I am not going to try to dress it up like it’s a simple issue of men not knowing how to properly address a woman. It’s more like: this is America. Every time I open a newspaper, watch TV, see an advertisement, there is some distinctly absurd ploy to make us, women, lose the double chin on our face, the “muffin top” on our waste, the wrinkles under our eyes, get new breast the replace the flat ones, stitch in new hair to replace the “bad” hair, and in many countries, massage creams that give us white skin. What are we doing this for? Was there a matriarchal shift in history where we demanded we transform and twist our bodies for our own good? I don’t recall. It’s all for the glory and feeling of being evaluated by the male eye. The status that comes with being looked at. Repeatedly. The howls of approval that one woman gets for wearing no more than a diamond studded bra and hot pants to a club. In every Seventeen magazine, I see these beautiful ploys: “Lose weight and make him yours.” But what if I don’t want to make him mine based on some mirage of a body I took diet pills to attain? What if I want him to like me, and not just the way I ride a pole or pussy pop or dip it low? What if I want him to like me for not consenting to his sexist behavior? I am upsetting the balance; will I ever find a man who can appreciate that...

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