Say I throw a weekly dinner party and I’m trying to decide whether to buy wine or beer for my guests. And say I ask you, “Hey, do you think I should get wine or beer for the party?” and say you ignore my question entirely and respond, “Hey, do you think I should take a shit on the floor?” And say, also, that this conversation plays out exactly like this every single week? And then you do take a shit on the floor? And I have to clean it up?
Would you REALLY be surprised if I stopped wanting to engage with you? Would you be mad if I didn’t answer your stupid question about the shitty floor?
Now imagine there are fucking thousands of you. That’s what being a woman on the internet is like.
It’s not black people’s responsibility to be your personal racism tutor, and it’s not women’s responsibility to take your moist little hand and give you a guided tour through the oppressive, old-timey limitations that circumscribe our lives. It is not my responsibility to vet every single one of your stupid rape jokes, and it is not Anita Sarkeesian’s responsibility to prove to you that gaming culture has a misogyny problem while she’s busy processing a bajillion “make me a sandwich, cunt”s from little baby gamer boys. We’ve been running backup for you long enough. Fucking do your own shit.
For every man who’s ever gotten butthurt when nasty feminist meanies won’t teach him what’s what.