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Here is a just a snapshot of what it’s like…

“What’s on my mind, Facebook? Glad you asked.
I am angry.
  I’m angry because before I moved to the UK, I worked at a bar where the manager proposed a new uniform where the men wore waistcoats and button up shirts, while the women wore corsets. And no one saw the problem with that.
I’m angry because when I told him that if I wanted to wear that I’d be a stripper and earn ten times more, my coworkers were embarrassed and looked away.
I’m angry because even though he eventually admitted that my objections were valid, this incident (“Corsetgate,” I like to call it) is not remembered as the time I defended myself and my female coworkers from being objectified at work, but rather as the time that I “totally flipped out.”

I’m angry because when I threw a customer out of the bar for grabbing me (twice, once after I explicitly told him it was unacceptable), I was asked repeatedly where exactly he grabbed me. As if there is some ranking system as to what must happen before I am allowed to feel violated by a stranger’s hands on me.

I am angry because the (female) bouncer told me afterward that his behavior was a compliment to me. I’m angry because she believes that. Because misogyny is so much a part of our society that women really believe that their bodies aren’t their own.

  I’m angry because last night, out at some random club in London, a man walked up behind me and thrusted against me. And when I told him to get the hell away

from me, he moved on to another woman who was too drunk to say the same thing.
I’m angry because when I asked the bouncer to throw him out, he told me I was overreacting. I’m angry that when I decided to stand up for myself, my friends told me I was overreacting.

  I’m angry because my reaction, my refusal to allow myself to be treated as a subhuman slab of meat, is perceived as an overreaction.

  I’m angry because men have a monopoly on anger. Because when I, a woman, am angry, it’s either “cute” or it’s “crazy.” It is never acknowledged that I could be a sensible, intelligent, educated person with a justifiable concern. Of course not. I’m a woman. (And a blonde at that. Strike two!)

  If my boyfriend had punched Pelvic Thrust Guy out, he would have been applauded. Whereas my impulse to simply inform PTG that I was displeased with his behavior was met with a chorus of “Just let it go!” “We just don’t want to see you so upset!” “It’s not worth it!”

  I’m angry because I was made to feel like I was being unreasonable for expecting to be treated with basic human decency. And PTG just strolled out of that bar without consequence. I cried all night, and he probably spent the rest of the night gleefully groping women who were too afraid or too brainwashed to speak up.

  I’m angry because this (and much, MUCH worse) happens every day. And it happens everywhere, from small towns in West Virginia to great cities like London. To me, and to every other woman on the planet. And we’re still not allowed to be angry.

  I am angry. And you should be too.”

[Source: BustyAssassin tumblr.]