I turn on him, wanting to reach out and strangle him for reminding me of my childhood. "No, I just don't appreciate that nickname. It doesn't make me a bitch because I have an opinion about something that affects me."
Men.
The rest of my steps to the printer are hard as I stomp there and grab the stack of papers from the tray and then stop by the supply closet on the way back and pick out a bright pink highlighter.
I will highlight the shit out of these reports.
My chair flops back as I sit in it hard and then use my feet to roll me to the desk. Anytime a woman has a mind of her own, she's considered a bitch or told she's "ragging it." As if men never had a bad day or let something bother them. Somehow only weak women had those issues.
It made me want to strangle every man on the planet.
Holy shit.
I drop the highlighter on the desk and use my fingers to count back the weeks, but I can't remember.