I feel like every man who has ever tried to convince me to take some rando shouting “Hey girl, nice ass” at me as a compliment sees it this way: You’re sitting outside some Italian café in a Betty Draper dress sipping a prosecco when all of a sudden your dainty neck scarf flies off in the light breeze. Joseph Gordon Levitt, wearing a linen suit with a pocket square and no socks with his penny loafers, steps off his Vespa and hands it to you while saying something witty about how it’s almost as beautiful as you are. You then both ride off into the sunset, laughing as Dean Martin plays in the background and the director yells cut on the espresso commercial that is your life.

In reality, it’s you getting yelled at by a bunch of sweaty men standing outside a bar at eight in the morning, telling you about how fuckable you look in your sweatpants when you’re just trying to get a bottle of milk in peace like a goddamn human being. And it is the opposite of a compliment.

To the man standing on the corner holding a sign that said “God hates gays,”
I bet your God would have made Eve without a mouth and taught her how to spread her legs like a magazine that she will never ever ever be pretty enough to be in.

Sooner or later, you will realize that you are praying to your own shadow. That you are standing in front of mirrors and worshipping your own reflection.

Your God stole my God’s identity and I bet he’s been buying pieces of Heaven on eBay. The next time you bend your knees, the next time you bow your head, I want you to tell your God… that my God is looking for him.