After reading Emily Ratajkowski’s recent essay in the Cut in which she wrote that a photographer named Jonathan Leder had published naked photos of her without her consent, I wanted to hunt down every last copy of the three books of polaroids of her and burn them in a pyre. Or toss them in a volcano. Or plunge them into the depths of the sea. Anything to gain even a sliver of justice — not just for Ratajkowski, but for every woman who’s been violently reminded that her body is not her own.