I was jogging through a New Mexican ghost town and ran past a beauty salon made out of adobe. Its sign read Hairlapeños. Leaning against Hairlapeños’s H, some artist had painted a pepper as a whore. She was posing in a come-stuff-me-with-your-cheese sort of way, and it hurt my feelings to see a plant being objectified. Things that rely on photosynthesis for lunch can easily be turned into sexual objects against their will when you put red lipstick on them and take away their clothes. The pepper was naked except for a bow stuck to her forehead and pair of red fuck me pumps the artist had painted onto long, green legs he’d given her. Maybe the pepper is lucky the artist gave her those legs. Now she can run from men who would grab her by her waist, hold her in place, and fold her into a chile relleno. She can run back to the garden. Plants are safer from misogyny if they stay in the dirt. In fact, in dirt, it’s hardest to be objectified. That’s why it’s so hard to objectify dead grandmas.