When girls tell me that a book I wrote made them a feminist and they want to hug me, I let them, but I also hate myself a little bit because the feeling I am feeling most is that if they really knew me they would never say that. But I say, Thanks, thank you, that means a lot to hear, thank you. It starts to feel like nothing, which is fucking horrible, because when someone calls you a cunt it sticks. It’s everything else that feels like the fluke. I am not supposed to say that. Of the horrible things that men say to women online, I am supposed say, You get used to it. Or They must have sad lives, I feel bad for them. And it’s true—I imagine these men who spend so much time hating women and sending me pictures of fetuses or making videos screaming about my sucking their dicks must have sad lives. Of course they do. There is no version of a fulfilled life that allows someone to write fuck you cunt on Twitter or tell you over email that your four-year-old daughter will grow up to be a bitch like her mom. But despite my best intentions and pseudo-Buddhist upbringing, I don’t feel bad for them. I don’t feel compassion. I just hate them. That’s all I have.

From Sex Object by Jessica Valenti.

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