Dear Men,
I don’t owe you a thing simply because I’m a broad, a chick, a girl, a gal, a chica, a lady, a member of the fair sex, a skirt, a pair of tits and ass, borne from Adam’s rib — in other words, a woman.
I don’t owe you a smile on your cue to brighten up your day because your inability to regulate your own emotions, that you now hold me responsible for, was always dismissed as “boys will be boys.”
I don’t owe you my silence when you interrupt me at a work meeting, brunch chat among old friends, or in front of our children — I will bulldoze through with a shaming, “Excuse me, I’m talking now.”
I don’t owe you an apology when I don’t move out of your way on the sidewalk, disagree with something you just said in front of people, ask you to simply do your job, or even apologize too much.
I don’t owe you my laughter so you can still feel like “one of the good guys” after telling that hacky, sexist joke because “fuck political correctness” or whatever other Roganesque mantra you need to recite every morning to feel like you’ve earned that dick.
I don’t owe you my presence as the token “female” in your conspicuously all-male shows or panels, so you’re hailed as a woke ally when all you’re handing out is self-aggrandizing charity rather than justice.
