The day I met puberty was the day I met a harassing, frustrating, annoying, sexual, repetitive life style ruled by the top dogs that would slobber and walk over and pee on me after they were done.

The day I met puberty was the day I started to realize that I had no idea what was going on with my own body and how to handle it. Why was I starting to be called slutty in everything I wore?

The day I met puberty I realized that apparently the word ‘no’ has so many different meanings. That apparently I’m not allowed to walk down the street without the fear of being fucking harassed.

The day I met puberty was the day a price tag was stapled to my chest that forever has labeled me with how society measures me to their perspective of beautiful.  If my booooty can twerk good enough or if my jugs are acceptable for a man. Or if my hair is perfectly sculpted into a masterpiece. Or if my face is painted with pounds of makeup hiding all my blemishes and flaws. Or if my makeup if too much because than “who am I trying to impress?” But if my face is bare, I’m not impressive enough. Society has make this fucking irresistible, incredibly impossible image for women and I just can’t catch up.

The day I met puberty was the day I learned that I had to make myself pretty enough so someday I can magically belong to someone who would take care of me and take all my troubles away.  Because I am a girl and like the princess stories, I apparently need a man to come and save me.

The day I met puberty was the day that society marked me as a piece of ass that made me property that was on sale to the man who didn’t understand what I mean when I say ‘stop’.