To start off, no, I’m not going to “pardon my french,” because I’m more offended by rape than a curse word. If you don’t agree, please reevaluate your priorities. Sorry not sorry.

I’m pissed off. I’m pissed off that Brock Turner is out of jail within three months for “good behavior.” I’m pissed that his sentence was only six months long. I’m pissed that news outlets keep describing him as a Varsity Athlete, instead of using the word rapist. But Brock is only the tip of the iceberg, and I’m sick of seeing his name and face whenever I unlock my phone.

I was walking across campus the other day, and I saw a few kids riding their bikes. The youngest, a small girl, was on a blue tricycle and pedaling hard to keep up with who I assume to be her older brothers. I smiled as I watched them play and laugh, and then I felt a crushing sadness take over me. That little girl, who looked to be about seven years old, had no idea what’s in store for her as she gets older.

I thought about her in high school getting called to the principal’s office because her tank top violates dress code in 90 degree heat in June, when really that code is there to objectify her and sexualize her body. I thought about men and boys catcalling her as she walks home alone, and the thrill of fear run down her spine as she hides her face. I thought about her posting a selfie to celebrate her self-confidence, only to be slut shamed. I thought about words like “bitch,” “slut,” and “whore” thrown at her for no reason other than she is female.

I thought about that small girl in pigtails going to college and going to a party with her friends. I thought about her feeling uncomfortable as strangers grinded on her on the dance floor, just because it’s dark and the music is loud. I thought about someone offering to take care of her, and instead taking off her clothes and having sex with her because she is unable to say the word “no.” I thought about her sitting in her dorm room after taking so many showers that her skin is rubbed raw and yet she cannot get the scent of him off of her.

I imagined the questions she will be asked when she tries to report it:

“How much did you have to drink?”

“What were you wearing?”

“Do you have any bruises?”

“Are you sure you didn’t lead him on?”

I sat there on that sunny day and fought back tears because I’m sick of this messed up world we live in where women are treated like objects instead of human beings. I’m sick of the same cycles repeating themselves over and over and over.

I don’t want our daughters and sisters and nieces to live in this world that we and our foremothers have experienced. I want our sons and brothers and nephews to live in a world where rape culture doesn’t exist. I want them to live in a world where the thought of taking advantage of someone is unfathomable.

That world won’t exist unless we change now.

We need to do better for the generations to come.

Because I’m f*cking sick of rape culture.