Brain Goo

Dear Sirs,

I am a professional.

I have been at my job for a little over two and a half years, and on most days, really enjoy what I do. My job consists mostly of helping people, which is an incredibly satisfying experience. It also consists of trouble-shooting, multi-tasking, and learning new things on an almost daily basis.

My job also consists of representing my company to our clients a few times a month when my boss is unable to make it to their meetings. Although I often gripe to mr. goo about having to go to these meetings, because they are held in the evenings (when I could be doing better things like watching the same reruns of Friends that I’ve already seen six times /sarcasm), this is actually one of my favorite parts of my job.

Not only do I get to meet a fascinating array of different people at these meetings, but it’s the real-life application side of my job in which I probably learn more about what I do in a few hours than I learn in the rest of the month. It’s challenging and rewarding, with the added bonus of highlighting the fact that I am a real live grown up professional.

What does not add to that challenging and rewarding and grown up experience is when you, Creeper, choose to ignore my experience and competence and ability, and instead spend the entire hour-long meeting doing nothing but staring at my tits.

As it seems that you have missed your lesson in Respect 101, here’s the short version: staring at someones body, when they are not your girlfriend, wife, or a professional stripper, is fucking rude.

Furthermore, not only is it highly offensive, but it completely undermines and dismisses the previously mentioned experience, competence, and ability. I did not get my job because I have a nice rack. My rack did not supply me with the necessary skills to advance in my job to the position I am in today; it will not be the cause of further advancement that will likely happen in the future. And while we are here, I will also mention: My rack is not the reason that people like me. It’s not the reason that I have friends, and that those friends trust and confide in me. I do not have the level of compassion, empathy, and kindness that I do because of my rack. It did not give me my ability to write well, dance well, or swim well. I am not a good student because I have a nice rack. It has nothing to do with my love of animals, or my sense of humor, or the fact that I have an almost perfect driving record. It doesn’t even have anything to do with the relationship I have developed with my boyfriend. My rack, and the rest of my body, are not what make me the person I am, and they have nothing to do with you or anyone else.

As wildly difficult as it may be for you to grasp, the fact is that my experience, competence, and ability stand for themselves, in much the same way that an Olympic athlete is still an Olympic athlete, even if she doesn’t have her breasts out for you to see.

I feel it appropriate to mention also, that sexist comments work in much the same way that your disgusting ogling does. When you, Creeper, tell me that I can stand in for my boss anytime, because I am “much easier on the eyes” (or any similarly narrow-minded comment), it accomplishes the exact same diminishing and degrading end. So let me say it again: My body has nothing to do with you.

I do not care who you are. I do not care if you are young or old, tall or short, fat or thin. I do not care if you’re gorgeous and fit and educated and rich and flash a winning smile. I do not care if you seem like a very nice person, or if you frame your misogyny in such a way that it sounds like a compliment. I do not care if I meet you at work, or on the street, or in a gas station, or at a coffee shop, or at a damn single’s bar. Whoever you are, and whatever setting we are in, I am not up for your review, and I do not exist for your viewing pleasure. Staring at and making comments on my body is inappropriate and extraordinarily unwelcome.

So I will say it again, Creeper.

And again, and again, and again.

I am a professional, and my body is none of your fucking business.