Once upon a time I had a hellish job. I was harassed so egregiously that it earned me a large settlement check, three straight months off due to PTSD, and intensive therapy. My story was so compelling that the therapist turned it into a book, which is probably a movie produced by Quentin Tarantino now. That's how ghastly that job was. I am largely Over It in some respects---I can speak to men again and have managed to work in an office---but a small ugly, bitter part of me isn't fully past it and hopes to hades that karma has visited the perpetrators in dreadful covered-in-honey-on-an-anthill sort of way. I'm bloodthirsty like that at times. The worst thing about being abused and harassed and why people let it go on in many cases is because the perpetrator convinces you to convince yourself that it is all your fault. And I had. I am generally a fair and open-minded person with an over-developed sense of personal responsibility, thus I had convinced myself that I was somehow...