I read the sparkling, obnoxious sticker on my mirror that reads, "Vaginas are Cool." I think this is a statement of my independent, new-found womanhood and pre-college rally-for-revolution zeal. I really have no clue what the sticker implies, except that my friends will go to great lengths to embarrass me.

"This sticker is for lesbians," she states.

"Lesbians? What are you talking about? Katie and Candice thought it would be funny." Realizing that these bright pink stickers are for gay women who like… and must want to advocate… I reply, "Shit, Mom, why didn't you tell me? I didn't know!"

When I wake up, the smell of Goof-off and discomfort of adhesive under my nails seems real and it takes me a moment to thank God I am no longer friends with those people or under their outlandish influence. Now I succumb to worthier deities, in ancient Homeric spirit, "The Few, the Proud, the Greek" of fraternity and sorority row. At least their attempt at making me comfortable with my sexuality (ergo my superiority) comes in another language, appropriate for any car window, sweatshirt, pencil, pillowcase, frame, notepad, beer mug, bottle opener, charm bracelet, towel, bitch bag, or shot glass.

In class the next day, after a series of breaths that coincide with backward counting from ten to zero, I brace myself for the button. Although I should be used to seeing it by now, I'm not. Although I know what it means, and accept my fate as its prime target, its presence in my line of vision is more than I can handle at times. I am above this, I think. I am comfortable with my vocabulary skills and Mac makeup. I believe in freedom of speech and that different is good. I need no special-forces or rangers to fight this battle. It is a ground war in which, ultimately, there are no casualties, minus a slightly damaged ego and self-image.

To end it, my final act is one of maturity and peace-keeping codes. Armed with my wit and cleverness alone, I have arrived in Philosophy of Japanese Culture early. As usual, my buttoned friend is there too, doing the cross-word puzzle aloud to ensure that everyone nearby is immediately made aware of her shamelessness and obscurity. Luckily, I am her only listener. I see my window of opportunity and take it.

"What's the girl's name who played on that one show with Jared Leto?"

Is she talking to me? I am confused.

"Oh, I need a drink of water."

She must be talking to the button. When she has left the room with a defiant huff, and I am alone, I nonchalantly reach down and remove the button from her bag. Holding its cold metal clasp in my hand, its voice speaks louder, with a high pitched harsh tone that makes me cringe more so than before. I am afraid its pin will prick me, and I hold it carefully with both hands around the edges to avoid getting hurt. I read it once more, "Fuck your fascist standards of beauty."

"Well f--- you, too," I whisper. I have little time; I must act quickly. With my forefinger underneath the pin and my left hand grasped tightly around the plastic, I take a deep breath and pull. I pull some more. I pull harder with frustration-driven force. It will not break! My moment of glory has no climatic pop. I start to panic. I will be discovered any minute now. How will I explain this to her? To another classmate? To my professor? This is too much. I am not a coward, not a failure; I am a noble, level-headed person who isn't bothered by something as trivial as a button. I decide on an alternate method of attack. It is dramatic and brave. Future country-clubbers line fraternity and sorority row and stand in gratitude for this defiant act.

I switch seats.