Dear the drunk guys who harassed me last night from their cab

Dear the drunk guys who harassed me last night from their cab:

No, I haven't forgotten it yet, seven hours later, although you probably have. You probably forgot all about it seven minutes later. And no, I'm not overreacting. That was my initial reaction too, to tell myself I was overreacting--but you know what, I'm really not. I have a right to be upset.

You know my pigtails, the ones you asked if you could use as handlebars? They're pinned up on the back of my head now, in a demure 1840s hairstyle, required for my job at a historic site. Yeah, I do my hair like that for work, not so that you can make me feel like the shit on the bottom of your shoe.

But I forgot. The mere fact that I go into public represents my tacit agreement that you're allowed to comment on my appearance all you want. Why else would I be out in public? Especially standing at a corner across the street from my home waiting for the light to change so I could cross. You were practically required to objectify me at that moment. God, what kind of slut walks home at night anyway?