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Opinion: As a Girl With a Short Skirt and Long Jacket, You’re Making a Lot of Assumptions About Me

So, you’ve taken note of what I’m wearing and assumed my entire personality and life experience based on my choice of clothing? That don’t impress me much (I was always more of a Shania fan.)

Many men over the years have pegged me as their real-life Karen. No, not the one from the Internet videos. The imaginary one who changed her name from Kitty and has, apparently, the same style inclinations as me, according to the smug-faced boys of Cake.

Maybe I do know what’s best, if we’re talking knowing what clothing works best for my proportions, and knowing that I’d best stay far, far away from guys who are way too into talk-singing, cringey-hat-wearing cash-grab wine-mom bands.

Cake, huh? No, yeah, never heard of ‘em and don’t care to, for the sake of this and every conversation I’ve had over my years of knowing I look devastating in a mini-skirt and velveteen duster and owning the hell out of it. And I admit, I do have eyes that burn. That’s a self-fulfilling prophecy on your part. Stop blowing your goddamn vape in my face.

It’s actually none of your business how early I get up or how late I go to bed. Are you saying I look tired? If I had uninterrupted prosperity, do you think I’d be at this dive bar, Grocery Outlet, or Ross Dress for Less? No, I’d be driving this imaginary Le Baron you all seem to think I own, and I’d know shit about dividends, too. I don’t even like Le Barons. I’m happy with my Civic, and it’s none of your business whether it has cup-holder armrests. I wish I could use a machete to cut through the red tape of you cornering me in this dispensary.

No, I haven’t toured any kind of facilities lately. What kind of question even is that?

You all seem to be searching for a lady to pay your bills and tell you how to get your shit together. And let me stop you there: it ain’t me, babe. I will not be picking up slack for your sake, euphemistic or otherwise. I think with my allegedly diamond-like mind that you could fulfill this fantasy by taking your mother out to get a new outfit and a manicure (is there a nail polish called “justice?” Is that what I’m missing?). She’ll pay for it with that Citibank card and use her dark, tinted glass voice to tell you to start listening to better music and leave poor, fashionable women like me alone.

And stop leaving stains all over her Italian leather so-fa.