Thank You Grand Theft Auto 5

Thank you, GTA. Not for the sprawling world of Los Angeles, the wacky fake radio bits, or the hours upon hours of playtime–I lost interest after a few hours. Yes, the game is everything GTA does best–irreverent story, cool cars, endless missions–but it really overshadows the previous games in one aspect:

Reminding women everyone that we women are objects.


See, if I hadn’t been blessed enough to live in Los Angeles, with ads on every fucking corner, I might have missed some of the GTA 5 posters. I might have somehow believed that women could tote guns or baseball bats or pit bulls. I might have mistakenly believed women are capable of looking threatening or scary or criminal, that woman are capable of pushing a story forward.


But, thankfully, you’ve erased my silly ideas. You’ve reminded me that women have one purpose: to be looked at. Yes, we are to tease the camera, to smile and pose in our bikinis, to become plastered on a game’s posters despite our lack of relevance to the story. We are not people with agency–we are not even people. We are things to look at. And, as things to look at, our value is only in how pretty/sexy/cute/coy we look. We are to have long blonde hair, doll-like features, fat nowhere but our tits and ass. And, most importantly, we are to show off those tits and ass (in a bikini whenever possible). And we are to like it. We will grin and flirt and pose for the camera because we know this is our only chance to be important. A woman could never be anything but a sex object. A woman could never be smart, competent, criminal, or dangerous. No, if we are not ingenues, we are cheating wives, bratty daughters, or disposable prostitutes.

If we are not ingenues, we are nothing.

So, thank you GTA, for reminding me of all my options. I am a woman. I can be anything I want, as long as its sexy.


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