Dear Jerk,

Dear Stop and Shop Parking Lot guy,

I'm totally not a prude and I am a terrible feminist. I actually grinned when you whistled at me from your truck even if I didn't look back. There was probably a little extra swagger in my step too. I worked pretty hard to look like I do, I don't mind that being noticed.

What I do freaking mind was your persistence. I did not look back, you did not see that I grinned. Do you have any women in your family? Would you want some dirty guy who couldn't be bothered to wash his hands after work to be checking out any of them and calling them a sexy bitch in a public parking lot?

I kept walking. That's a clue. I always park really far away because I like the long walk.. but thanks to you next time I will think twice. That walk never seemed so long. I am not yours to objectify and really, until you brush your goddamn teeth you really shouldn't open your mouth. I think your polluting, seriously.

As I started my car I saw a woman get in your truck. Was that your wife? Was that your toddler she was dragging by the arm as he screamed for more candy? Did you forget to buy her the bottom half of that dress? I am really sure there was supposed to be some kind of skirt. I wanted to go and tell her what a pig you are. How disrespectful you are to women. And when I imagined you interrupting me (probably telling me to shut the fuck up you stupid bitch, cause that kind of abuse is all over your face) from her enlightenment, I imagined putting my palm up and in your face without even looking at you. But.. she probably already knows, doesn't she?

I heard your mirror move, by the way, you should use some WD-40 for that before you go parking lot stalking again. You left a nasty taste in my mouth. It tasted like oil and grease and dirty sand. You made me feel.. out of place and uncomfortable in the worst kind of way. You made me feel like it was my fault.

I hope one day someone's husband sees you do that crap and kicks the last of your teeth in. I hope it's caught on a cell phone and posted to You Tube and I hope I see it so I can play it over and over again while I drink wine and eat popcorn.

Signed,
Pink Sweater.

And while I was not wearing a short skirt I was strongly reminded of this poem.

My Short Skirt
(from The Vagina Monologues)

My short skirt
is not an invitation
a provocation
an indication
that I want it
or give it
or that I hook

My short skirt
is not begging for it
it does not want you
to rip it off me
or pull it down.

My short skirt
is not a legal reason
for raping me
although it has been before
it will not hold up
in the new court.

My short skirt, believe it or not
has nothing to do with you.

My short skirt
is about discovering
the power of my lower calves
about cool autumn air traveling
up my inner thighs
about allowing everything I see
or pass or feel to live inside.

My short skirt is not proof
that I am stupid
or undecided
or a malleable little girl.

My short skirt is my defiance
I will not let you make me afraid
My short skirt is not showing off
this is who I am
before you made me cover it
or tone it down.
Get used to it.

My short skirt is happiness
I can feel myself on the ground.
I am here. I am hot.

My short skirt is a liberation
flag in the women’s army
I declare these streets, any streets
my vagina’s country.

My short skirt
is turquoise water
with swimming colored fish
a summery festival
in the starry dark
a bird calling
a train arriving in a foreign town
my short skirt is a wild spin
a full breath
a tango dip
my short skirt is
initiation
appreciation
excitation.

But mainly my short skirt
and everything under it
is Mine.
Mine.
Mine.

—Eve Ensler, 2001