An open letter to the guy blatantly staring at my chest behind Ellis Hall:
Hey there, dude! How’s it hangin’? You havin’ a super dooper day? Righteous, dude, right on!
But, um, I have to tell you... I was watching you as you watched me. Our eyes met as you saw me walking. The first thing I noticed was your pair of perfect brown eyes and I could tell immediately that you were interested in all the right things about me. I was thinking we should do something sometime if you — oh, wait. No, that didn’t happen at all.
See, I did notice you looking at me — well, um, “looking” isn’t exactly the proper jargon for this situation. I find “leering” more appropriate. Yes, “leering” implies creepily staring and/or smiling. Yes, yes. Leering, sir, (and I use that term lightly,) you were leering at me. And not at my face, as would be the appropriate area to look at people you’ve never met and are passing by casually on the street. No, sir, that was not the case. Over the years, I’ve noticed a single area of my body that your kind tend to favor and if you haven’t figured out what this place is, let me direct you to my ample bosom.
I know I’m wearing a tank top today, so this is entirely my fault and I apologize to — oh, wait. No, I don’t. I don’t apologize at all. How dare you, sir? As if creepily staring at my chest were not enough, you smiled at me and bared not only your disgusting teeth, but your disgusting heart. How dare you? You acted as if my chest is visible only for your benefit. Not only did you behave inappropriately for a stranger, you behaved inappropriately for a human being. You did not, sir, even look away when I gave you a well-deserved glare. Instead you smiled to my face and continued to gaze into my shirt like you were doing nothing wrong, and as if it was funny that I was indignantly opposed to your lecherous stare. So, now, you have made me feel like a cheap piece of meat, (which I am not).
And now that the passive aggressive part of my letter is coming to a close, let me say to you, sir, that it would be entirely pleasant if you walked into oncoming traffic. I’d send the driver of the car that hits you a bouquet of expensively arranged flowers.
Ashley Labaki is a senior studying psychology.
