Govies

I swear to the sweet motherfucking baby Jesus, fucking govies.

I grew up in DC—the centralized hell of government employees. We call them govies. Govies are some of the most inexplicable humans you will ever deal with. They’re like rats in suits.

I grew up knowing that federal holidays meant you could drive with ease on the Beltway. Federal snow days meant the govie rats in suits would be huddled at home, terrified of driving, because none of them could drive in the fucking snow.

I remember the vast joy of the Clinton era government shutdown, which happened to coincide with the Bizzard of '96—a magical moment in the nation’s capital where, for once, you could actually fucking drive despite several feet of snow. Because the rats stayed home.

I have approximately -13% respect for anyone who works for the government. And that’s the federal government. I’m not even talking about state govies, because honestly—who the fuck pays attention to them until they have to?

The current situation I’m in has made that very, very necessary.

So let’s get to it.

To the rats in suits quietly watching: speak.

Talk to me. What exactly is your deal right now?

Because here’s what I actually said—what I actually wrote—underneath all of this:

My assailant used deep psychological manipulation against women.

Not subtle. Not rare. Prolific.

I didn’t name names. I didn’t have to.

And yet—here you are.

Watching. Reading. Saying nothing.

That’s the part I’m interested in.

Not your job titles. Not your self-importance. Not the silence you seem to think protects you.

The behavior.

So I’ll say it again, more clearly this time:

If you’re going to sit there and monitor this instead of addressing it, you’re not neutral. You’re part of the problem.

I come in peace.

But I’m not going anywhere.

Chill your tits, govie rats