Please fire me. At twenty I am the second-youngest person working at my restaurant. And yet, I get to put up with co-workers constantly saying phrases like “nasty style,” drawing sperm on our reservation books, and distorting everything I say into some sexual innuendo. Lately, my co-workers have been telling me I should be a stripper, that I look innocent, and that I look like a 60s porn star. And let’s not forget my manager: who thinks it’s funny to hit me with rolled up paper or say sexist jokes to piss me off.