When you're 6 years old, you cannot process the complexities of the world. Clouds are mysterious white blobs and Santa is an overweight Norweigan man. We organize information into categories, like candy on Halloween, to create order from the chaos. Unfortunately, the labels we attach to others are often oversimplifications. In reality, we are nuanced, unpredictable beings, despite a basic bitch Insta feed, affinity for SoulCycle and iced latte diet.

Our stereotypes are a product of societal teaching. We hate to admit it, but we form judgments based on mere 10-second interactions. Oh, she's wearing Birkenstocks, she must be a hippie. He drives a Beemer, he must go to USC.

I'd love to consider myself a pinnacle of modern liberalism (sadly, I'm not). I tend to transgress the bounds of what's socially acceptable, like wearing my terry cloth bathrobe to dining halls. If you know me, you probably know that I wear sports bras to lectures and mini skirts to Trader Joes. My lack of clothing has become a part of my "brand."

Strangers stare, assuming I'm trying to get dick in the produce aisle. But it's really not that complicated. I like to think I'm a free spirit. My parents were '60s non-conformists, and in college, my dad helped burn down a bank, convinced "the establishment" had destroyed our country. My point is, my "fuck the system" attitude is embedded in my DNA.

Wearing what I want, which is often not much at all, is a form of rebellion.

Unfortunately, few and far between understand this. I was called a slut before I had even had my first kiss. We are trained to conceal our bodies. They are a distraction in the workplace, a playground in the bedroom. We are "supposed" to wait until the third sushi dinner before we take Brian home. These are the rules, often implicit, that govern our behaviors and limit our freedoms.

Many women comply without complaint. They want to become CEOs one day, why would they wear a bodycon dress? Because... why not? If the fabric covering your hips determines your success more than your intellect I am profoundly concerned for our world. You don't have to wear revealing garments if you don't want to. But the ability to choose — this is freedom.

The social repercussions of wearing a crop top are perpetuated by those with sticks up their asses. Maybe they're projecting their insecurities onto you. Or perhaps they are looking out for your "reputation." Essentially, they're telling you that your style of dress implies hoe behavior.

Your promiscuity is no one's business but your own.

But more importantly, it has nothing to do with your push-up bra and lace bodysuit. However, others form opinions, creating a reality of you that is not correct, and sadly, their assumptions can have damaging effects on your life. As a white blonde girl with a strict Lululemon and crop top uniform, I've experienced this on one too many occasions.

We scroll through Instagram, see a teenage brunette with underboob. Despite commenting "slay queen," we are judging the shit out of her. She must be desperate, some say. Maybe she's insecure? Social media is a performance. Followers are the judges, likes determine our score. If your feed features a thong bikini, Mom didn't raise you right.

I hope you can sense my sarcasm. Because trust me, I know that you are more than double-Ds and fake blonde hair. We are all complex creatures, with opinions and perceptions that do not reflect our appearance.

My fake eyelashes, fake tan, and exposed thighs scream Beverly Hills bimbo. People are shocked when they learn I study for days at a time, and actually know some shit about the world. I am a living paradox, wearing patent leather pants with my philosophy paper in hand.

In an ideal universe, negative judgments wouldn't exist.

We'd all hold hands and eat cheesecake without getting fat. I would prance around in a cashmere robe, no pants, no problem. While this illusion is tempting — we cannot escape our biology. We are inherent judgers, it's what allowed us to distinguish friend from foe during the Stone Age.

However, we are an evolved species, no longer in the jungle. Our world involves brunch and martinis. We go to work, hit the gym, then pass out. It's not in our jurisdiction to punish Jamie for wearing that low-V tank. If she thinks she looks hot, then her confidence looks much more attractive than your mean-girl facade. Those concerned by reputation are slaves to their ego, trying to get ahead, only to realize three-fourths of the way through their life that none of it really mattered anyway.

We live, we die. Everything is temporary. I'm sorry to get deep on you, but it's a good reminder to have, especially in an age where good looks and a pleasing aesthetic are power.

So, the next time you see a girl half-naked on the gram or walking down Broadway with her tummy exposed, don't assume she's some hoe with no brains. She may just be a free spirit, like me.