Listen up, men! I have had it with your gross, shameless objectification of my female body. So stop staring at my tits and start looking at my eyes, which are in this jar on this shelf!
I’m only going to say it once: eyes up here. My eyes are up here, in this jar on the shelf.
Men can be real pigs. Their eyes float from woman to woman, kind of like how my eyeballs float around in a special sanitizing liquid. My eyes might be detached from my body, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hear you call me “baby” when I pass you on the street. Newsflash: that’s demeaning! Women are people too, you know! So don’t look down at us like we’re a piece of meat. My pickled eyes, sitting on a shelf three feet above us, don’t look at you that way.
It seems like ever since I grew into my body, men stopped paying attention to what I had to say, and only paid attention to my body. Once I developed breasts, men hardly ever looked at my eyes that are encased in a jar. Come on, guys! Make an effort! Just because my eyeballs are clinking around in a mason jar while eerily still able to see things doesn’t give you license to stare at my breasts.
For the last time: Don’t look at my tits, you sick fucks!
Look; I know there are good guys out there. Plenty of men can look right into my lifeless eyeballs when they’re talking to me, and I appreciate that. But I’m talking to the men who don’t. Hello! I’m more than a nice rack. I’m a scientific wonder! Why can’t you see that? And really, so called “nice-guys”, if any man out there can look me in the jar and tell me they’ve never objectified a woman? Well, I’m calling bluff.
You’re probably asking, “But wait, don’t women objectify men, too?” Please. Don’t make me roll my jar-eyes. I don’t stare at a guy’s dick when I’m talking to him. Just because I have gaping holes in my face where eyes usually go doesn’t mean I don’t have a brain. I don’t need you boys to determine my worth! (It’s $15 for the jar and $40 for a month’s worth of antiseptic liquid.)
So stop staring at my tits! Stop ogling at my ass! We women are so much more than that. Remember, it’s not about what’s on this outside that counts—it’s what’s on the inside of the jar. Namely, my bloody, optic-nerve-dangling, all-seeing eyes.
Any questions?
