To the man in the burgundy coat, who I made a semi-awkward conversation with at the cafe I had my breakfast at this morning:
I wish I was as angry with you a few hours ago as I am now. Our conversation has been recurring in my head, over and over again, all day. I also wish I was a tiny bit crazier so I could chase you down and tell you this to your face: I hope you live a long, rotten miserable life.
Let me remind you how it went. You bumped into me as I was on my way to sit down after picking up my food. You apologized. How nice, I thought. Little did I know.
Lesson one, man in the burgundy coat, when people smile to you it does not mean they are inviting you to sit at their table. It was a crowded little cafe so I didn’t hesitate.
Lesson one, me and any other woman who feels uncomfortable with a stranger, hesitate.
For future reference, I am going to call you Matt*.
I was rendered speechless when you asked for my Snapchat before you asked for my name. Was that some sort of 21st century etiquette? Because I seem to not be catching up.
I told you I didn’t have one. I lied.
I decided to conduct my own little social experiment and ask you for something personal too, a little less personal than your Snapchat though.
What’s your favorite movie?
Fast and Furious, you said. You didn’t have an answer when I asked you about your favorite book. Why is that Matt? Was my question not interesting enough?
You asked to take a look at my Instagram.
Lesson two, Matt, if I didn’t give you my Snapchat don’t ask for any of my other social media profiles.
Lesson two, me and every other woman who feels uncomfortable with a stranger, leave.
But I didn’t leave. I decided to move forward with my social experiment instead.
I’ll show you my Instagram if you show me your browser history, I challenged.
“Well, you’re a real fucking bitch aren’t ya? A tall one too!”
Am I Matt, really? Why? For imposing on your privacy? Like you did when you didn’t ask me if you could share my table? Like you did when you asked for my social media credentials before you knew my name? Like you did when you wanted access to my photos and the most I know of you is that the most intellectual thing you’ve came across is an overrated cliche car racing movie that men like you probably get off on?
Wow Matt. If I am a “real fucking bitch”, can you please tell me what are you? Since we’re not even on a first name basis and you have already defined me, I would love to see how you define yourself. Would you include the words ass-whole and harasser? Would you see yourself as verbally abusive and low-mannered?
Also, why is my height bothering you? Is it because you feel your masculinity is overshadowed by a taller than average woman? A woman who instigates fires in men like you, tiny and only protected by that huge burgundy coat?
Lesson three, Matt, do not call a woman a bitch.
Lesson three, me and every other woman called a bitch for no reason, you are allowed to be angry.
I was. I was angry enough to slap you, Matt. To say something back. But you walked away as soon as you uttered those words. Coward. You walked away and the man behind me said, “Don’t worry about it. He’s just a prick. Leave him alone.”
But I didn’t want to leave you alone. I didn’t want to sit back and not react because some other man told me so. I didn’t want to let it go because this happens everyday, if not to me then to other women around me. This is our world and you have made it like this, man in the burgundy coat. You have made it like this, man sitting behind me telling me not to react. I didn’t want to let it go but for some reason I can’t comprehend yet myself, I did. Here I am, regretting it and writing you this letter.
So to all the Matt’s reading this. Fuck you. I hope your browser history gets leaked to all your Facebook friends. Even the incognito tabs.
Enjoy your Fast & Furious films.
All the women being verbally harassed on the streets, everyday.