Last year, in my illustration class, I pointed out to a woman that the spaceship in her painting was great but it looked “a bit… phallic.”

Last week, in my book making class, I pointed out to a woman that some of the stuffed, zippered oddities in her awesome plush book looked “a bit” like the vulva puppet we used to have in the store.

Both times I was met with nervous laughter and some serious side-eyeing. I mean, they did look sexual. And I’m positive that I’m not the only one who noticed. Yet, for whatever reason, telling someone their story’s space exploring protagonist was floating around in a big dick is somehow a worse critique than the person who told them to start over entirely.

Cut to tonight and I’m watching a man take bets on how many grapes he is currently holding in his foreskin. Sometimes, I love my job more than art school.