An Open Letter to Harvy Weinstein’s Bathrobe


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Dear Terry,

Hey, buddy. I just wanted to let you know that I don’t blame you. I understand that you were an innocent pawn in this lurid fiasco, and I can’t imagine what you’re going through.

I understand things didn’t start out this way, and that most days, things were good. Sure, you’d see a pretty face once in awhile, but this business is all about pretty faces, right? Then there were the settlements – but rich, powerful men are often the targets of such allegations, and YOU certainly can’t see EVERYTHING that happens, so how could you really be expected to know? After all, he doesn’t always wear a bathrobe, and there were days I assume (and sincerely hope) you were in the wash.

Throughout the hard times, the lawsuits, the finger-pointing, and keeping alleged affairs safely under your terry cloth wraps, you remained loyal. You were there for him while he planned the day over morning coffee; the stains of your sacrifice remain. You kept him comfortable, no doubt easing his notorious temper to a dull thrum of playful misogynistic comments through many a “work meeting”. You were accommodating, not only to him, but to his – as far as you were aware –  willing associates, you with your fabric belt dutifully tightened around the paunch of a mentor you tried to protect from this ultimate exposure.

But from your crumpled up spot on the floor, you had to know what was up. The hasty way he’d cast you aside, as you sat there, trying not to hear, trying not to see; you had to know what was happening.

I know you must being feeling guilty for keeping quiet. The horrible things you’ve witnessed, the hot-tub chlorine burns you endured, and being put in a position where you were essentially made an accessory far beyond your intended bathing and comfort purposes.

You were probably torn. Not in a “putting on a robe super quickly before she catches wise, oops I caught it on the hook” type of torn, although I’m sure that hurt just as much. Here was this powerful man, an Oscar making machine, and all these years you’ve stood beside him like a brother, doing what you could to keep him covered, not just because your job was on the line, but job reputation of an entire company; neigh, an empire.

You were a decent bathrobe. Always fluffy, absorbent, without becoming waterlogged, and those convenient pockets! Spacious enough to carry around the keys to the locked apartment door. I know that if you were a decent person, with actual sentience, a conscious, and a mouth, you would have tried to help those people, instead of coddling him, and keeping him happy, and covering him up, as is your job. Don’t beat yourself up, man – there’s only so much a bathrobe can do.

Hoping the Tide will turn for you soon, and your moral fiber remains intact,

Sarah Louisa Burns


Sarah Louisa Burns, is also known as An Optimistic Cynic. She is the wrriter/director of the film Uptown Art, purveyor of crochet body parts, SJW writer of things. She sometimes plays a whore on TV.

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