I was the feminist killjoy. I did not pick my battles. I died on every available hill. I asked my coworkers to stop using words like “bitch” in the company chat room. I bitched about being one of six women at a company of fifty. I wondered aloud if perhaps it was inappropriate to converse in graphic detail about app-enabled threesomes in the open-plan office. I stopped wearing dresses, to stanch a recruiter’s stream of strange and unsettling compliments about my legs, which he spoke about as if I were a piece of furniture. A chair without a brain. A table with shapely legs.