I don’t dress for men. I dress for the occasion, my mood, or just, the weather. And so, interning in the Philly heat last summer, I wore dresses and skirts, which warranted attention from, SEPTA riders, party goers, sidewalk walkers. Really, anyone. Because I am a journalist, I made it a habit to write these unwanted comments into a journal. Here they are, organized by hemline, for you to understand—to understand that I didn't wear this for you.
“Girl, that’s short. Are you trying to get it in tonight?” —Female friend
“Do you like white guys? Cause I like that ass.” —Bar dweller
Walking home from party: “Damn girl. Uh huh. Yes.”
Upon leaving job, Septa 3:30pm: “You come from work? Where do you work? I would visit. Make money.”
On the street: “I like that. You seem retro, like 1970’s. Makes your ankles look hot.”
“Damn, you like religious or something? Show some leg .” —Another Bar Dwelller
