Ode to The Lecherous Uncles.

To All Those lecherous uncles who made you feel bad about yourself just by walking by them. Those men with red faces and big bellies bloated with booze and rage who liked to interrupt a a family party to point out your flaws as a child. Your pure milk skin was too white, too pink, too round. And somehow your cheeks were full of themselves and had to be brought down to size. Whatever your size it wasn’t quite right. The skinny ones didn’t have enough meat on their bones and the ones that questioned them had too much sass and needed to be put in their place. These men that would have you sitting in therapists chairs for years questioning what they were seeing in you that was so flawed. Did they know something about you? But the question was all wrong. It was them. You couldn’t get small enough for them to feel good about themselves. You should thank them for the trained you in a way for men you had to pass on the way into the cafeteria, and into the world of comedy. No matter what you said, no matter how intelligent you were, you were reduced to what you looked like. To your size. Your face. You f-ability. Repeated over and over again playing like a radio station in the background-and yes we didn’t let it stop us -and yes we pushed past it- but the tune was tiring. Everyone in the world had a TV remote deciding what volume a girl should be.

A world that still thinks Eve started the whole damn thing.