Fuck you.

I’m sick of people assuming what I am.

You’ve got me figured out, this pretty girl.

If I’m passionate: I’m crazy, emotional, irrational.

If I’m sensual: I’m a slut, a bimbo, a man-eater.

If I’m reserved: I’m stuck-up, a prude, conceited.

Yes, define me. Figure me out.

Assume that I’m two-dimensional, that my problems revolve around how hot I look or how many guys want to fuck me.

Assume that I’m unread, unimaginative, and unoriginal.

Assume that I’m easily-fulfilled, that a dick is all I need in my life to make me happy.

Put me in your box; try to define what kind of girl I am.

Because I’ll have none of it anymore.

I am what I am and what you call it is no concern of mine.

So go ahead and put my faults on display, judge my mistakes, and figure out what’s wrong with me so that you can pretend to be a savior.

I’m not going to be ashamed of being me anymore.

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