F — k you, Louis. Do you see, K?

I don’t want to have to be abruptly interrupted by your comeback story.

See, it’s all about where we are forced to attend.

Do we not deserve a break from imagining your junk whipped out to shame and belittle the other? The woman.

My story is different. It didn’t involve you. I was called. I was seven. I picked up and there was a voice that sounded so open, kind, so familiar. I thought it was my uncle, who was sweet and gave big hugs.

“Hi sweetie- your parents home?” (Since familiar, since uncle) “No.” (I say.)

And more questions.

I bet you are wearing a pink nightgown. I bet you are blonde.

And I bet you aren’t wearing underwear….

(What?)

I was complicit by the fact that I spoke. I answered questions. My fault.

And how does he know I’m blonde with blue eyes? Can he see me?

Is he looking at me through this window right now?

I placed the receiver back down. And cried, and told no one. And it changed me.

But I didn’t know it until I was 44 years old and it came through — the huge life influence that phone call had.

According to reports you forced these women who thought you liked their comedy — you were the kind uncle on the phone, they thought, and then —

Shit.

They were suddenly just a tool for you — a piece of nothing — just an object, like a glove to whack off with.

And your comeback matters?

The only thing that matters is that you heal — deeply — that you work harder on healing your shit and teaching others what you learned to prevent that abuse from ever happening again.

You owe this world healing before you get applause.

Applause. Do they applaud you for pretending careers were not ruined? These are my people you destroyed — my she mates.

I grew up thinking part of me was supposed to be there for the male turn on — to be used for that. I sometimes re-enacted what happened by undressing in front of windows, my trauma revisited. Your actions, perhaps too, from trauma— but your enacting damaged whole life trajectories. You let that be, for a minute.

I became loose with my self protection since it had already been smoked. Who knows what these women did after you, what happened to them.

Brokenness that damages whole courses of lives comes in an instant of being duped. The candy wasn’t in the van — the rapist was. How dumb of me to want candy. How dumb of her to want to believe her jokes were funny and you thought so.

Does this penis mean I am shit? She asks.

Am I leading on my uncle? Wait, it wasn’t my uncle — did I ask for this by being blonde? By wearing pink? Most shamefully, by enjoying the feel of this cold satin nightgown on my skin?

Am I nothing? Am I a tool for a mans pleasure? Is that all I am? Do my jokes matter? Does my body matter? Does my pleasure matter? Does my opinion matter? Does my mind matter? Does my success matter? If other people stand up and applaud him do I matter to anyone? Do women get to matter — ever — matter? What does matter?

Do you owe this world healing before you get applause?

Oh, he doesn’t think so? Oh, she doesn’t? Oh, the President doesn’t think so? Oh, congressmen don’t? Oh other famous comedians don’t think so? Oh, let’s hear from more of them -

Oh, Hollywood doesn’t? Oh, you don’t?

Well, f — k you, see, I do.