and STOP calling me chesty larue, okay? it's not funny anymore.

i want to sneak downstairs for a cigarette. i don't want the guy working reception to notice me as i go. i don't want to engage in chitchat, i don't want to act like i'm interested in anything other than smoking. i am not in the mood today. not in the mood to cope with the fact that he touches me too much, takes any excuse to touch me. i am no longer comfortable with this kind of behavior from anyone associated with this building. after all, we all know what happened last time someone in the buildling decided that my personal space was a good place to be.

i'm having one of those days where i really wish i were invisible. for that reason, and for the fact that everywhere i go, people stare at my chest. no matter what i wear, no matter where i go (crewneck t-shirt and jeans; elevator. hardly provocative circumstances). check the face for identification, check the tits for some reason i can't fathom. no fewer than ten people today. i hate it. i hate it. i have been ashamed of many things in my life, particularly where my body is involved, but i have never before been ashamed of my breasts. not the way i am now. i am embarrassed by them. it's like i'm channeling the thirteen year-old girl i once was, the one who couldn't cope with these things on her body, who carried the book in front of her everywhere she went. i found myself doing that yesterday on the subway, holding my book over my chest, because every time i put it down, every pair of male eyes went straight to my chest.

it's been a long time since i've felt so filthy, so objectified, like i can see in their eyes the fantasies they're having of fucking me against a wall, calling me a whore and fondling the aforementioned body parts, and then leaving me for dead to go back to their wives. and their eight children.

that's what i see. that's what i feel. that's why i started yesterday by spitting at someone.