If you are terminally online, you have no doubt heard of the following trend: Women ask men on camera how often they think about the Roman Empire. The men overwhelmingly reply with versions of the same answer: a lot. A ton. Monthly. Weekly. Daily. Constantly.

Experts posit that the Roman Empire invades so many Man Brains because the centuries-old society influenced the world in ways historically perceived as high-testosterone. You know, gladiators, warfare, strappy sandals.

"The men during the Renaissance did it," Artur Hulu, a Roman reenactor credited with starting the TikTok trend, told the Washington Post. "The Founding Fathers also thought about the Roman Empire. Once you get enough exposure to the Roman Empire, whether it's the military stuff or the law, you start to see it everywhere."

Of course, I asked my husband how often he thinks about the Roman Empire. He had zero knowledge of this trend and was wildly confused by my question. Nonetheless, he replied with a crack on humanity: "Every time I drive on the street." More seriously, he continued: "I read an article about them a week ago."

The last time I thought about the Roman Empire was probably when I visited Rome with a friend and tried to get into the Colosseum, which was inexplicably shuttered. A surly Italian man leaned against the entrance smoking a cigarette and muttering, "Closed." We adjusted our plans toward pasta and limoncello, and that was the end of that thought experiment.

Since the dawn of this viral trend, though, the women of the internet have met in our chambers to concur that we don't think about the Roman Empire, but rather, things like the Salem Witch Trials, Princess Diana and Joan of Arc. Overwhelmingly, women have concurred that the thing we think about most is being kidnapped, attacked and maimed.

I can confirm that while men are fixating on armor and military formations, thoughts of harm from men remain the ultimate feminine preoccupation. I absolutely ponder being kidnapped, attacked and maimed almost every day, a vision wrapped in plots ready-made for "Law & Order."

Recently, I was out walking my dog when I noticed a truck pulling up to my mailbox. The driver deposited something and sped off. By the time I yanked the Pomeranian back to the house, I'd devised an entire storyline in which a deranged stalker had left me a written threat or something worse. I would go to the police to report the scant few license plate digits I caught. The letter, or the box of severed fingers, or the pig's heart, or whatever the man in the truck left in the mailbox, would be the crucial piece to solve these heinous crimes. With luck, the evidence would be full of fingerprints, and justice would be swiftly realized.

When I got there, I found a note from a guy asking who made our front door.

I constantly think about how my house would look as a true crime setting when I am inevitably eighty-sixed by an intruder. At times when my laundry is especially overwhelming, I picture the posthumous embarrassment of the crime scene photos airing on "Dateline," and I get to work cleaning up. My house should be baseline tidy enough to look good in crime scene photos, that's all. I guarantee this thought has crossed the mind of 80% of women.

To be clear, it's not like I live in paralyzing fear of death or think most men are violently mad. It's more of a constant, low-key awareness that men do have the ability to go full Roman blood sport at any moment. It lives with women like a freckle on the arm of Sextus Varius Avitus Bassianus. Another precious memory: Years ago, I was living alone. I took my dog out in the backyard at night. Why do all these stories start with taking the dog out? Anyway, a man HISSED over my fence, "Hey. Hey you over there." I grabbed the dog, ran in the house, turned off all the lights and cowered on the floor. Then, someone started POUNDING ON MY DOOR. I screamed through the sidelights, "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" And my neighbor screamed back, "YOUR CAR ROLLED INTO THE STREET."

The next day, I saw him outside, I kid you not, polishing a wrench. I walked over.

"I thought you were going to murder me," I said.

"Murderers don't knock," he said, which, fair point. Or do they?

Now, look. I am bringing these stories up in context of the Roman Empire trend for a reason, I guess. I think? I wish to implore the men among us who do obsess on the Roman Empire and gladiators and political history and mercenaries and war and trade and innovation to work in some time to think about the ways you coexist in the world with those of us who don't spend our time obsessing on guys with names like Gaius Marius and Pompeius Magnus. Just remember that lots of those dude-bros who developed Western language, religion, art, philosophy, aqueducts and units of weight also snatched up teenage brides like they were Pokemon, you feel me? Remember the Vestal Virgins? Just, like, what I'm saying is, don't walk so closely behind us, OK? In alleys? Don't tell us to smile in CVS. If our car is rolling into the street, lead with that salient fact in the inky darkness of night and not, "Hey you over there." Then you can go back to your fantasies about having pecs and wearing metal skirts, and we can go back to micro-dosing mentally poisonous true crime shows. Thanks for your cooperation on this matter and, uh, go Spartacus or whatever.

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on Twitter or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: Ulvi Safari at Unsplash