Dear Men of Cambridge, MA, on Pearl St. between Erie and Mass. Ave,
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We need to talk. I know you agree, because every morning and afternoon, you try your hardest to get my attention. I've listened to what you had to say every day that I've lived in Cambridge. Now, it's my turn to talk.
-My name is not Baby, Honey, Sweetheart, Muffin Ass or any other witty pet name you can concoct.
-No, I do not want to let you "hit that shit".
-No, you cannot walk with me. You can walk near me, I suppose, because the sidewalk is public property and I can't stop you, but I'm not going to speak to you or acknowledge your presence. I'll probably "accidentally" flick my cigarette at you if you do so.
-I do not want to be your "boo". What the hell is a "boo"? Do I scare you? Do I look like a ghost? Please translate.
-If you have nothing better to do at 8am and at 4:00pm on a weekday than to sit on your stoop and cat call passers-by with a bottle of liquor oh-so-inconspicuously hidden in a brown paper bag in your hand than it's no wonder you're still single.
-"Damn baby, you have a FAT ass. NICE" is NOT a compliment.
-I live 6 blocks from Central Square in an apartment that costs more per year than a new Mercedes. I have a job. You clearly do not. I want to know how you afford your apartment two blocks from the square when I work and can barely afford mine. If cat-calling passers-by pays money, please introduce me to your HR Director. I would like to compliment her on her "jiggle". Whatever that means.
-Sneaking up behind me, removing one of my iPod headphones and asking me what I'm listening to is a good way to get the toe of my "sexy kick" in your groin. It is not a good way to get my phone number.
So please. PLEASE can I just walk to and from the T station in peace? Please? You all creep me the fuck out. Thanks.