I don’t drive. It’s not that I’m not the legal age (I’m almost 17), or that I
don’t have access to a car; I simply don’t have the time to make it happen. Getting a license just means another test to study for, and I have more than
enough of those: Physics, English, SATs. I suppose you could say that my having to walk to the light-rail station, take the 37-minute ride to the Arizona State campus, only to walk further to the Literature Building is my fault.

So did I bring your abuse on myself?

Did I ask you to cock your greasy head in my direction and spill your
slimy comments all over me? I don’t recall soliciting your evaluation of my appearance, but if I somehow did you really delivered. That remark, shot through your grimy grin, that remark you seemed so proud of, that remark accompanied by a revolting lick of your lips, that remark doesn’t make me feel sexy. It doesn’t make me feel beautiful or attractive in any way. On the contrary, that putrid phlegm you just purged and tried to pass off as a compliment made me feel like shit.

Don’t you have a sister? A girlfriend? A wife? You have a mother. How would you react if she were walking down the street and some pervert
leered, then slowly, sickeningly nodded his head and spit a revolting proposition in her face?

Is it because I am young? Do I look vulnerable? You must think I praise the high heavens every time I see your stomach-churning smirk and that I desperately crave the demeaning words you assault me with.

NO!

When you utter those foul words reeking of your undeserved, imaginary authority, I feel worthless, worthless as the dollar bill you pretend to fling in my direction. I feel unsafe. I feel molested. I feel my self-worth plummeting.

How dare you!