I’ve been wanting to write this for a long time. Yet, somehow, despite my love of angry words and yelling at and about men, I just couldn’t bring myself to put fingers to keyboard. And now, in no small part thanks to the bravery of fellow blogger and Abbey Park High School alum, Brianna Wodabek (which occurred ages ago now but, you know, chronic procrastination makes writing things real hard), I’ve finally decided to throw caution to the wind. Brianna, thank you for breaking the silence I and everyone else were too afraid to breach. Read her piece here. Especially in our post-Weinstein world, this conversation has never felt so necessary. So, as scared as I am to pen (pixelify?) these words, there’s no better time than the present to burn some high school bridges. Let’s dive right into the fire.
Dear random old man I passed on the street-corner one morning,
The morning began like many others: I woke up, ruing the three glasses of wine and four gin and sodas I’d consumed the night before, not to mention the chicken nuggets I’d subsequently drunkenly shame-eaten in my bed. The empty ripped-apart McDonald’s bag lay on the floor, eliciting as much regret as a used condom beside a college girl’s bed the morning after a questionable Tinder date. I pulled myself together best I could and mentally prepared myself for the long day of peddling mediocre vegan food that lay ahead.
Coming home after a long day at work to a party that isn’t yours is rarely ideal, and this particular Friday evening was no exception. I arrived home from my shift selling mediocre vegan food to find my house filled with strangers. I’d had enough interacting with strangers for one evening, so I promptly shut myself in my bedroom, ready to enjoy a wild night of folding laundry.
So, there you were, swiping along on Tinder, when you came across a pretty girl. Let’s call her Betty. You checked out her profile, and she seemed like a cool gal, so you gave her a right swipe. Lo and behold, a match!
After chatting some, you and Betty decided to meet up. Low-pressure; a casual dinner date. You talked, you laughed, you had a nice time. The date ended, I’m sure you felt, on a positive note. Betty came home and recounted the date – her first Tinder meet-up, in fact. She’d been quite nervous beforehand, considering “Don’t meet up with strangers from the Internet” is basically the first lesson you learn in Not Being Kidnapped 101. She said you were very nice and had enough in common to keep the conversation flowing, but that she didn’t really feel any sort of “spark”. Overall, though, a positive Tinder experience, considering she hadn’t been murdered.Read More »
I understand that in writing this post, I am engaging with you, which is the exact opposite of how you’re supposed to deal with trolls. However, I don’t feel like you’re a “personal” troll. You seem more the type who peruses tags of subjects you like to troll about, where you commit your troll-y acts as you see fit, and then move on to other troll opportunities. Thus, I am fairly confident that you will never visit again and won’t ever read these words. Unless, in a plot twist, you actually found the post through my Facebook, meaning that I have unwittingly been Facebook friends with an anti-feminist troll for an indeterminate amount of time. If this is the case, please feel free to delete me from your friends list at the earliest opportunity.Read More »
Dear my dental hygienist (sorry, I don’t have anything better to call you),
I’m not going to lie; as it stands, I already really hate coming to the dentist. Well, I doubt anyone really enjoys the dentist, but for me, it’s like a torture chamber. I have this thing about metal against my teeth, like a nails-on-chalkboard cringe-y feeling (I avoid biting my forks and spoons for this very reason), so I’m sure you can understand my distaste. Also, I apparently have really weak enamel (I’m a very diligent brusher, promise!), because every time I come to the dentist, y’all are like, “You have 300,000 cavities! Guess you might as well move in here for the next few weeks while we freeze your mouth and drill your teeth out of your head!”
Anyway. I should get to the point of this letter, which has little to do with my predisposed dislike for those in the dental profession.Read More »
Dear dude on the subway three Thursday nights ago,
It was 10 o’clock on the night before Halloween, and the first night of Halloweekend. Halloween is one of my favourite times of the year; you get to be whoever and whatever you want, be as sexy or silly or weird as you want, and nobody will say anything about it.
Dear girl who sat behind me in 18th Century Literature and Culture,
I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Well, it’s possible you at least know who I am, and think I am an annoying keener, because I tend to participate in class discussion frequently, unlike you and your band of sniggering gossip girls. I don’t usually sit in that spot, but when some dude who never comes to class decided to take my usual seat, I was forced to choose somewhere else. That is how I came to be in front of you.Read More »