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Category Archives: Women

You’re gonna carry that weight; carry that weight a long time

I was a skinny kid. Photos of me from back then are all pigtails and smeary glasses and I’m usually covered in mud. And I’m sometimes brandishing things like frogs or buckets of mucky water, for whatever reason. I probably had a plan for those buckets. Maybe I was going to put the frog in them. I don’t know.

Then puberty hit. You can’t fight science, people. I come from hearty peasant stock on both sides of my family. Dad’s side are all, in his words, “built like tops – big on the top, skinny on the bottom.” (I attempted to explain to him that’s not exactly how tops work, and also we don’t spin very well, but he was all “WE ARE LIKE TOPS!” so who am I to argue with him?) and my mom’s side are all built like the Goddess of Willendorf. Curvy doesn’t even begin to explain it. Genetics decided I needed a little of both, apparently.

Now, Dad had been heavy growing up, and teased about it mercilessly. He lost quite a bit of weight when he married my mother (who was, and remains, thin; she’s the only one in her family that is.) Dad saw that I was starting to gain weight and immediately feared that I was going to be teased about it at school.

His solution? Constantly watch everything I put in my mouth, tell me how disgusting being fat was, tell me I needed to be working out and/or being active every single minute of every single day, tell me I was never going to find anyone to love me if I was fat, and call me things like “elephant.” If I got upset about this, he was genuinely confused. “I just want you to be happy,” he’d say. “I just want you to be pretty and thin.”

Now, I don’t know what size you’re imagining me in high school, but if I remember correctly, I was about a size twelve. A twelve. I was probably around…oh, I don’t know. 140 pounds, maybe? 150? Just about the thinnest I’ve ever been in my adulthood, anyway. I certainly wasn’t fat. And I’m fairly tall. 5’8.

I WAS COMPLETELY NORMAL.

However, years and years of being told, by the person you love and admire most in the whole world, that you are ugly, fat and worthless, take their toll. My self-esteem, never overly good to begin with, wasn’t getting much better.

Senior year, I was tired of being so ugly and fat (although I was neither – I look at photos of myself from that time and think “GOOD GRIEF, WHY DIDN”T YOU REALIZE HOW GORGEOUS YOU WERE?!?!”) and went on a crash diet. This diet was basically a bowl of cereal at breakfast and a can of Chinese vegetables at dinner. Sometimes some chicken. No lunch. This was what I ate every day for about 8 months. I worked out for hours at a time daily. I lost about fifty pounds. I could see my hipbones and my ribs and my cheekbones. My collarbones were so prominent I would sometimes accidentally bump them and leave bruises.

It was the first time my father ever told me I was beautiful. He followed it with “See? All you had to do was lose weight. I knew you were beautiful underneath that.”

I was starving. I had headaches constantly. I was tired all the time. But I was THIN. Boys were paying attention to me. One of my teachers told me, “Don’t you dare ever gain weight again. Don’t you DARE” which at the time I was all “Aw, nice!” and now, looking back, I’m all, “Um. CREEPSTER!”

I think you can see where this is going. Can anyone maintain that kind of diet and exercise regimen in the long-term? And not get scurvy? And not go CRAZY? I mean, I couldn’t eat ANYTHING. I was counting the calories in CORNSTARCH. I’m not even kidding you about this. This is not a way to live a life.

I gained the weight back over about a year. I felt terrible shame. I’d let everyone down. I was disgusting. I was ugly and fat again. I had no self-esteem; I didn’t like to go out in public, I didn’t like to go out with my friends, I didn’t date because who would have me? I drank a lot, though. Liquid courage, right? Mmm-hmm. Works every time, except when you start needing it for everything, ever. Like getting out of bed in the morning, or to get to sleep at night. Or for everything in between.

I’ve fluctuated in weight ever since. Sometimes I’m heavier; sometimes I’m lighter. And here’s the thing; as I age, it matters less to me. I still don’t love what I see in the mirror every day; I still see photos of myself and think, “Good grief, that’s an unflattering photo.” I still have residual shame. I still think “If only I was thinner, life would be easier, in a million different ways.” But it’s not a daily thing. It’s not even all that often anymore.

And before you start to hate him, Dad understands, and has repeatedly apologized, for what he did when I was younger. I often think most of parenting is a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants affair. He really, truly thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was stopping me from the ridicule he’d experienced as a teen. He didn’t realize – and did anyone, back then? – the long-standing effect that kind of treatment would have on my psyche. I’ve forgiven him. He doesn’t say a word now. And he’s said, without prompting, many times since, that I’m beautiful – no matter what size I am. He loves his daughter.

We live in a culture where it is not allowed (well, it still happens, but it’s not appropriate) to make racial jokes, or jokes about someone’s sexuality, or mental illness. But we’re still allowed to make fat jokes. Because fat jokes are funny. Fat PEOPLE are funny, right? Because, well, we CHOSE this. We chose this because we eat ALL the Twinkies and chips and cake and pie and sit around all day doing nothing. We chose this, and because we are fat, we are lazy and we also smell. Of course we do! And sometimes we fall. Ha ha! How funny!

So the best thing to do is make fun of us. To shame us. Because, as this VERY scientific study proves, it’s the only way to make us get off our lazy asses and get thin. Thin and therefore healthy. Oh, because, I don’t know if you’re aware – if you’re fat, you’re immediately unhealthy. There’s no such thing as a healthy fat person. We’re all one HoHo away from our first (or second, or third, or last) coronary. So the thing to do is shame us. According to this “prominent bioethicist” (I don’t see “ethics” coming into this at all) what you should say to any fat people you know, I mean, if you care about them at all, is “If you are overweight or obese, are you pleased with the way that you look?” Because of COURSE they’re not! And they just didn’t realize it until you shamed them! Oh, what a favor you are doing for them. They will thank you on the finish line of their first triathalon! They will shout your name from the top of Kilimanjaro!

Or they might tell you to shut your nosy piehole. Because I’m going to tell you something right now, and if you take anything away from this, I want it to be this.

My body, his body, her body, their bodies – anyone’s body but your own – ARE NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.

I don’t care if you’re fat-shaming them, thin-shaming them (yes, it exists, please read sj’s amazing post about it, and the comments, and I know from personal experience, as I have a dear loved one who has constantly been picked on about being too thin, which she can help JUST about as much as I can help my body shape, so it’s real) or ANYTHING shaming-them, or if you say you’re doing it because you’re worried about their health, or what, exactly, your impetus for putting your nose in someone else’s business is. You have no right. None. You have no right to tell them they should lose weight (unless you are their doctor, and even then, sometimes, it gets worrisome, because there are some doctors who prescribe weightloss as an easy out for everything from asthma to a sprained toe because they don’t treat the patient, they just see a fat person and think, “I KNOW WHAT’S WRONG IT IS FATNESS!”); you have no right to say things about their lifestyle choices, their clothing choices, who they’re dating, what they’re eating, how loud they’re talking, or anything whatsoever. Keep your eyes on your own test, buckaroo. I’m sure you have something you’re not proud of. Would you like someone walking up to you and saying, “Man, that’s a huge nose you have there. You should get that surgically reduced. You know, for health reasons.” Or, “I noticed you have a very small penis, Man I’m About to Have Sex With. Have you thought about getting that surgically enhanced? You know, for health reasons?” IT WOULD BE THE SAME THING.

Here’s some Fun With Fat-Shaming. Don’t even think I didn’t research the hell out of this.

First, we have Kate Upton. Who is, I think we can all agree, STUNNINGLY GORGEOUS.

She also really likes bikini shots, so it was hard to find a photo of her clothed. Hell, good for her. She is smoking hot.

She also really likes bikini shots, so it was hard to find a photo of her clothed. Hell, good for her. She is smoking hot.

Well! Were you also aware she is “well-marbled,” “thick,” “vulgar,” and – this one’s my favorite – a “little piggie?” Or – well, how about a whole paragraph of hate? Sure!

Huge thighs, NO waist, big fat floppy boobs, terrible body definition – she looks like a squishy brick. Is this what American women are “striving” for now? The lazy, lardy look? Have we really gotten so fat in this country that Kate is the best we can aim for? Sorry, but: eww!

YES! She has been called out as too fat to model by a VERY reputable blog site called Skinny Gossip. Two things I loathe! People who judge others’ bodies and gossip! (Also, she tagged the post with “fatties” and “thunder thighs,” because, well, why not?)

Guess why she’s not model-material? BECAUSE SHE’S NORMAL-HUMAN SIZED. Well, no. She’s actually quite a bit less than normal human sized, as normal humans are, what, a size 12 now? 14? Something like that? I don’t think she’s that size. But she’s not waif-thin, and apparently, Skinny Gossip thinks that’s what size you have to be to model clothing.

Psst, Skinny Gossip, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. She’s stunning. And it can’t possibly make you feel any better about yourself to call people pigs, can it? Really? Do you sleep well at night knowing you put something like that out there in the world? That kind of hate?

Next: employees at CVS will now be forced to take a BMI test and a blood-glucose screen to remain on their healthcare plan, or risk a fine. Why?

The company’s rationale? Coercing employees to submit to health testing will provide incentive for workers to get—and stay—in shape.

Huh. “Coercing.” Forcing, really, because the fine is $600 and they don’t pay much above minimum to work at CVS. And what happens once you take the test? Do you have to see a counselor about your totally fat fatness? Are you told if you don’t lose weight, you’ll be let go? Are your test results posted in the breakroom next to a photo of a bag of Cheetos with a red circle and a line through it? WHO KNOWS.

Or, how about, let’s fat-shame our children with this new ad campaign? Because there’s nothing that kids need more than to be shamed. I mean, it’s worked out so well for me, right?

Please read the article that accompanies this photo. It’s kickass. It has excellent examples of fat-shaming. HEARTBREAKING examples. And, sadly, TRUE examples. People think it is ok to walk up to perfect strangers in the grocery store and QUESTION THEIR FOOD CHOICES.

(True story: I had a woman come up to me in the grocery store and tell me she worked for Herbalife and they had an excellent line of diet pills I might like to try. First thought: shame. Second thought: WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE. Second thought won out over first thought; I told her I was not at all interested in a pyramid scheme for products that don’t work in the first place, and I was sorry she felt the need to walk up to strangers and judge their body type, and walked away. She was offering them to the next woman that walked past as I checked out. So apparently my words meant nothing.)

So, anyway. Yes, that’s an ad campaign for (well, against, I guess) childhood obesity, targeting overweight children. Because they probably aren’t aware they’re fat. So let’s do a whole ad campaign for it. That’s a good way to help kids with positive self-esteem. Way to go, guys.

Of course, there’s also good old Southwest Airlines, who expect their fat passengers to spring for two seats. And even their not-so-fat passengers. Whoever THEY deem as a little too fat. They SAY it’s if the passenger can’t put the armrests down, but as Kevin Smith found out a few years ago, that’s not it at all – it’s racial profiling, only with your weight. It’s fat-profiling. He was able to put his armrests down; the passengers on either side of him told the flight attendant they had plenty of room. They still kicked him off the plane. And when he got back on a later flight that they hurriedly put him on once they realized who he was and that he was tweeting millions of people about this practice, they fat-profiled another person, then put her in his row, so she’d tell him about it, and he’d know it wasn’t just him, and feel better.

DEFINITELY taking up way too much room. He should have purchased the WHOLE DAMN PLANE. *eyeroll*

DEFINITELY taking up way too much room. He should have purchased the WHOLE DAMN PLANE. *eyeroll*

Yes! Because nothing makes us feel better than to be shamed in front of a crowd of people than to do it to someone else. NOTHING. (I read his book Tough Shit recently which went in detail into the incident, and my heart just broke for him. Because no matter what you think of Kevin Smith – you all know I think he’s fantastic, but you can hate him if you want, just don’t tell me about it, ok? – when that happened, he was just an average guy, being fat-shamed in front of a full airplane of people. Worse, he was a FAMOUS guy being fat-shamed in front of a crowd of people, and if it was an average guy, it might be a laugh or two, but with a famous person, it’s news, you know? He took control of the news and labeled it “too fat to fly” himself – he’s very good at self-deprecating – but it hurt. Of course it did. Because no matter who you are, where you are in the world, being shamed for your body size is not something you can laugh off. It just isn’t. The shame should be on Southwest Airlines, not the people they’re profiling.)

Then there’s this. I can’t embed a Facebook thread, so sadly, you will have to click. Here’s a screenshot, though, because pretty pictures, right?

Now, you have to click to see the comments. The comments are really what makes this. Because this STARTS OUT as normal, then this person shows up who hates fat people. HATES THEM. Only, no no! She doesn’t HATE them. She has MANY FAT FRIENDS! (Does this sound at all like someone who makes a lot of racist comments, then says, “What? I’m not a racist! I have MANY MANY BLACK FRIENDS!” Yeah, to me, too.) So she starts writing things like “no, it’s a known fact that all fat people are unhealthy and many doctors refuse to operate on them because, well, they’ll just die on the table. Because, well, fat, you know?”

Don’t worry. There are some kickass commenters on there. They give her the smackdown. She doesn’t ever shut up, but they win intelligence. She doesn’t win anything but idiocy and mouth-flappery.

This is, by the way, called “concern-trolling.” It’s like being a troll, only you’re pretending it’s because you CARE. Isn’t that nice? A whole new way to be a douchecanoe!

Sara, from Laments and Lullabies, wrote an amazing post recently about fat-shaming, which you all should read. Her post, and the terrible comments on that Facebook post up there, were what finally made me realize I needed to write my own post. Here’s her post. You should all a., read, and b., comment. Oh, and c., follow her blog.

There are more. There are so many more. But this is edging into way too many words for a Saturday territory, and also I’d like to get to bed at some point.

I will leave you with some bullet points. Because, who doesn’t like bullet points, am I right?

  • Other people’s bodies are none of your business. Keep your words off them. Unless you’re telling them they’re beautiful. Everyone likes that shit. Even if they pretend they don’t.
  • Pretending you’re “worried about someone’s health” is not an excuse for commenting on someone’s weight, whether they’re heavy or thin. Again, see the first bullet point. Even if they’re naked with you, their size is none of your business. Whose business is it then, Amy? THEIRS. No one’s but theirs.
  • Making fat jokes is a., not funny, and b., lazy. There are actual funny things in the world to point out. Like misspellings. Who doesn’t like a good misplaced apostrophe or missing comma? The answer to that is NO ONE.
  • To reiterate what we learned in the first bullet point: before making a comment about someone’s weight, please think the following quietly to yourself: “What is my least-favorite attribute. Now, would I like someone to loudly mention it and say it is ugly and/or unhealthy for me to have, and publicly shame me about it?” The answer to that question is always no. ALWAYS.
  • Also: if you think you are too fat, and everyone’s judging you, and you’re ugly, and OMG I CANNOT LEAVE THE HOUSE, guess what. No, seriously, guess. Hardly anyone even notices. The only people that do are assholes. And who cares what assholes think? I hope you don’t.
  • Finally: I’m going to tell you something I’ve learned in my old age. Ready? Shh, don’t share this one around, it’s kind of radical. WE ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL. I know! Every single last one of us. Fat. Thin. Tall. Short. We’re a lovely bunch of coconuts. Except – there is one thing that makes you ugly. Guess what that is? Hatefulness. Being hateful. You can’t be beautiful with hate in your mind, soul, or mouth. So get rid of that, and guess what? You’re gorgeous again. And everyone will see it. I can see it right now! Whoa, babe, dial that back, you’re blinding me with it.

We’ve become a culture of shaming. We’re rape-shaming and we’re slut-shaming and we’re thin-shaming and we’re fat-shaming. It’s repulsive and this shit’s gotta stop. Like, immediately.

Stop shaming anyone. Including yourself. You are beautiful. The people around you are beautiful. No one should be shamed for how they look. The next time you look at yourself in the mirror, be amazed at how gorgeous you are. And tell the people around you how beautiful they are. Don’t allow them to blow it off and say things like, “Oh, I look like a cow in this top” or whatever, either. Nope. Not today, buckaroos. Tell them they’re beautiful AGAIN. Until they actually believe it.

Then, all of that stuff? Do quadruple that for your kids. Make sure your kids enter the world with the strongest self-esteem possible. They’re going to need it, and you can help them with that.

We might be surrounded by shame, but we can combat that with love. Is that the opposite of shame? Don’t care. For our purposes it is.

Love you guys. You’re gorgeous. Every last one of you.

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An Open Letter to Jane Doe, the Victim of the Steubenville Rape Case (Trigger Warning)

What was done to you was not your fault.

Before I say another word, before I go any further, I want you to please re-read that. Not just read it, but absorb it.

It was something that was done to you. It was done TO you. You were not capable of consent. It was done to your body because mentally, you were not present, and you did not give your consent. You did not give your consent by drinking at the party, by being at the party, by what you wore to the party, by whatever you might have said or done at the party. You did not give consent; therefore, it was done to you, and done against your will.

And it was not your fault. As much as you did not give consent, nothing you did can be blamed on you. You weren’t at fault for drinking. You weren’t at fault for being there. You weren’t at fault for dressing, acting, talking, or walking a certain way. Nothing you did caused this; you are not at fault in this situation.

However, not only did the golden gods of Steubenville, Ohio do what they would with you that night, America has victimized you all over again. Because, you see, those good young boys, those football-playing, intelligent young men, would never have done this. Right? So it must have been your fault. Because you’re female. And if there’s anything we like to do, it’s blame the woman. It’s something we’re very good at, going all the way back to Eve. You’re just one in a long line of women taking the fall.

So we call you a whore. We bemoan the fact that these boys’ lives are ruined. We disparage you because you were (gasp!) underage drinking. Someone pipes up with the fact that you might not have been a virgin before the night of the party. Someone else shouts that in one of the photos, it looks like you might be standing on your own, so therefore were obviously wanting to be there, to have these things done to you. Even better: people send you death threats. Because this is clearly your fault.

What we don’t say: that a group of boys, so many boys (some of them, age-wise, if not mentality-wise, men) that no one has ever been able to provide even a potential possible count of how many there might have been, took a sixteen-year-old girl who was either blackout drunk or who had been roofied and raped her, repeatedly, over one long night and into the next morning. Not only did they rape her in every single orifice she had, they urinated on her as well. Because it was funny. And because they could. And of course, because it’s the digital age, they videotaped and tweeted it every step of the way. With things like “I have no sympathy for whores” and “never seen anything this sloppy” and “some people deserve to be peed on.” When they were finished, they dumped her on someone’s lawn. Like you do with garbage that you have no further use for. Because that is how we treat human beings. We dump them when we’re done with them. Like garbage.

We concentrate instead on the fact that the two boys who were caught – not the multitude of boys who are guilty, just the two boys who were caught – will now be labeled sex offenders for the rest of their lives. That their lives are over. How will they play professional sports now? How will they get good jobs, go to college, move into good neighborhoods with this hanging over their heads? And who among us at that age didn’t make poor decisions? How unfair. How unfair for those poor boys. These poor boys, who cannot, apparently, be held responsible for possibly drugging, then holding a semi-conscious girl against her will for hours, passing her around like a plate of cold cuts, and raping her repeatedly, then recording it. These are not the actions of children. These are not actions of someone making a bad choice. These are actions of rapists. They got off light, sentencing-wise. The other boys who weren’t caught? Well, aren’t they lucky. They are free to do it again. Or something even worse. Because by not catching them, we’re telling them what they did was alright. What they did was acceptable.

And we either vilify or ignore the central character here. You. Because you are either the evil devil temptress woman who ruined these poor boys’ lives, or you aren’t even worth our time.

You are the victim of a terrible crime, and you have been further victimized by the woman-hating society in which we currently live. And for this, I apologize doubly. I have been reading comments on blog posts and screaming myself hoarse on your behalf for days. I have been weeping because I know what it feels like to be in your skin.

We don’t believe our rape victims. Even when they have the courage to come forward and say, “I was raped.” Even when there is video showing it being done to them. Even when there are tweets and recordings of people admitting they did it. We refuse to believe it, because it’s much easier to believe that the woman somehow deserved it.

By drinking too much at a party while underage – even though the other people at the party were also underage and also drinking.

By dressing a certain way – as if men can’t physically control themselves when faced with certain apparel.

By not being a virgin – as if you’re not allowed to say no if you’ve said yes once, whether to that person or to someone else.

By flirting with someone – because flirting is just subtext for “I want to be brutally raped now, please.”

By daring to be female around people who happen to be male – because, well, it’s what we deserve, right? For not having a penis? And not offering every man in the room a place to stick their penises?

If I could, I would like to sit you down. I would like to tell you that you are not broken. That your life doesn’t end here. That not every man you meet will be like these boys were. That there are very, very good men out there that understand that no means no, even if you’re not physically capable of saying no. That not everyone in the world thinks you are to blame for this, even though those people seem to be the most vocal right now. That none of this – none, not even the slightest bit of it – is your fault. These boys are to blame. Even the ones who didn’t touch you and just stood by and recorded it or tweeted, or just stood by and laughed. You are not at fault. You didn’t ruin these boys’ lives; they ruined their own lives the minute they decided to assault you. This is their fault. This is not on you. Nothing about this is. None of the hateful words people are spewing right now have anything to do with you; they have everything to do with small minds and fear. I hope your family is holding you close; I hope your family is telling you how much they love you, how cherished you are, how special.

You are sixteen years old. Possibly seventeen, now. You have your whole life in front of you. You can be anything you want. This does not define you. You are stronger than this. You are stronger than you know. You faced down that entire town. The strength that had to take – I can’t even imagine. I think about you refusing to back down on this, seeing it through to the end, and I am so, so proud of you. You stood not only for yourself, but for every other girl that this has happened to. You showed them what bravery was. You showed them that this is not allowed. You showed them that we will not allow this to happen to us, to our sisters, our daughters.

You have started a national dialogue about rape shaming, about how to teach our children about rape, about how far this will go before someone says, no. No more. This is not something we will allow. This is not something we will permit people to do to our children.

None of this is your fault. None of what they did to you is your fault, no matter what the media says, no matter what the people in the town say to you or about you or behind your back. You can hold your head up high, and I hope you do.

You are not broken. You are not broken, or even bent around the edges a little bit.

In my eyes, you shine so bright we all need to squint a little just to look at you. I am so proud of you. I am so humbled by you. I thank you so much for your courage when you could easily have run, backed down, locked this behind a door in your heart and never spoken of it again, never looked at it again except at 2am when sleep won’t come and the morning seems like it’s a million years away.

You are my sister, my daughter, my friend. We should all be flocking around you to protect you; instead, the world threw stones. And you refused to run, and you refused to back down, and you refused to turn away.

We could all learn a lesson from the internal strength of a sixteen-year-old girl in Steubenville, Ohio who was assaulted, accused of ruining people’s lives when she told the truth about it, and stared them all down and refused to change her story because she had truth on her side.

I expect great things from you. Those of us who have been tested in the fire often come out stronger than we’d even imagine on the other side. Please know there are people out here who are raising their voice with yours. There are people out here who will not let you walk through this alone. And we are just as loud as the people who hate; only we’re twice as powerful. Love always is, you see.


Just be nice to the gentlemen, Fancy, and they’ll be nice to you.

There are a lot of problems in the world today. Unless you’re living in a happy plastic bubble or a biodome or something, I’m sure you’ve heard about some of them. Shooting people. Crazy religious types Jesus-shouting at funerals. The hatred of all things not-“normal” – so you’re screwed if you’re not a straight old rich white man. The world’s a maelstrom of lunacy at the moment. It’s a lot of fun to live in. If by “fun” you mean “a place filled with many pits of quicksand so TREAD LIGHTLY DARLING GINGERSNAPS.”

This one’s kind of miniscule, overall. Comparatively, I mean. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t infuriate me. So are we going to rant about it? You bet we are.

I heard about this here. Sprocket Ink (our friend Jim used to write there, and once he left, I stayed around, because I enjoyed their articles…which is what people say about Playboy, right? So THAT sounded suspect) covers a lot of news stories in a snarky way I enjoy. Also since I have trouble keeping up with the news lately they’re super-helpful with keeping me up-to-date with things. Snarkily. I like that.

In case you don’t feel like clicking through (I see your stats, I know like one or two of you a day click through) I will recap the article for you. I can do that. I’m helpful. Also pissed.

There is a website called Potential Prostitutes. I know, doesn’t that sound like the most fun? It’s not.

I think this is an actual prostitute, not even a potential one.

I think this is an actual prostitute, not even a potential one.

On this site, anyone (it’s anonymous) can click and input the name, photograph, location, and phone number of a “potential prostitute.” The website will put that person up on the site. It’s all very simple.

Who are the potential prostitutes?

Doesn’t matter.

Could be a potential prostitute. Could be an actual prostitute. Could be your ex-girlfriend. Could be the girl who stole your boyfriend. Could be the pretty girl in your math class that gets more attention from the boys that you do. Could be the girl that wouldn’t sleep with you on that date the other night. Could be that girl that wouldn’t go out with you the other night. Could be the girl that’s treating your best friend like shit and he’s too over the moon to see it.Could be the girl that hates you for no reason and you just want to pay it forward. Could be the girl that’s bullying you. Could be the girl you’re bullying.

It. Does. Not. Matter.

And shitty. Also it's shitty.

And shitty. Also it’s shitty.

This totally up-and-up website will take this info and post it so people can search it by location. That’s it. Very simple, very easy. Then everyone can see this potential prostitute. And we can all shame her. SHAMMMMMEEEEE HERRRRRR.

What’s that? She’s not a prostitute? Well, THAT doesn’t matter.

What if you’re the girl on the site? What if someone emails you and says, “is this you?” and sends you a screencap of you on the Potential Prostitute site? Is your life over? How will you live this down?

Well! Don’t worry. It’s not a forever thing. For only $99.95, you can get yourself off the site. You’re safe! I mean, what’s $99.95 in the grand scheme of saving your good name from the Potential Prostitute site?

OK, the people that own this site? Assholes. Scammers. Using the internet to make money. Yes. Of course they are. Scum. Lower than the low. Similar to that bag of dicks who makes those Girls Gone Wild videos. I can’t imagine this site will stay up for long. They’ll screw up, post an underage kid’s photo or something, they’ll get sued, the site will get pulled down. I’m not a psychic, I’m just practical. (Although they’re hiding behind some law that they say makes what they’re doing ok. Which I would link you to but I’m not linkbaiting this site because I hate it so much it’s giving me hives. Also, it’s free speech, they’re saying. Assholes, all. This is not what free speech was made for, you guys. Back in the late 1700s they weren’t all “we gotta provide for the Potential Prostitutes of the world, yo.”)

"Also Potential Prostitutes. We gotta look out for these bastions of all that is right and good in the world?"

“Also Potential Prostitutes. We gotta look out for these bastions of all that is right and good in the world?”

However, what bothers me is the people who are submitting photos to this site.

Sure, there might be actual people submitting actual photos of actual prostitutes to the site. Anything’s possible. I don’t know that we have to shame prostitutes; it’s a shitty enough job, and as long as they’re not shanking people and stealing their wallets, or speading all the STDs, or something, why don’t we leave them alone, already? Prostitution is legal in enough other countries. I’m finding it more and more ridiculous we’re so backward here in good old Merka about this. But of course we are. Here in Merka, we’re attempting to take away a woman’s right to choose, as well as our access to birth control and probably, eventually, our right to do anything but pump out babies and stay barefoot chained to the stove making pies or something, I don’t know what the hell. We’re sure as hell not going to legalize prostitution any damn time soon.

But I’m willing to bet actual prostitutes aren’t going to pay the people who put up the site almost $100 to take their photos down. Why would they care if they’re on a shady site? I don’t think the cops would use this site to arrest them, and it’s probably free advertising for them.

No, this site was set up because whoever’s behind it is betting on humans being human. And being small, and petty, and slut-shaming women. For whatever reason they want. Hurt feelings? Hatred? Bullying? Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Let’s call them a whore on the interwebs. And make the target of that vitriol pay about $100 to get their name removed from said site, or not pay it, and run the risk of someone finding it there and assuming they’re a whore. Sorry. A prostitute. Not even! A “potential” prostitute. Because that’s classier.

This infuriates me.

It’s got a slut-shaming component, which infurates me already. But it’s got a bullying component to it, too. A “let’s ruin someone’s life just because we can” component.

Listen, I get hating people. I try very hard not to. I do. But I’m a human being. And there are people in this world that I just detest. Whether they’ve done something to me personally, or to someone I love, or they’re just soul-sucking wastes devoid of human emotion…well, the reasons vary. As I get older, my irrational hatred has gotten less frequent. I’m mellowing in my old age, you see. But, yes. There are people in this world that I hate. I can think of a handful. And a few of those are women.

Would I put them up on a site and call them potential prostitutes?

No. No, I would not. I can’t imagine anyone being that petty…although I know there are people who are. I work for an answering service, you see. I deal with all sorts over there. (Callers, not coworkers. I love my coworkers.)

THIS IS NOT OK.

We don’t need to be putting people up on a website and calling them a whore. Whether they are or not. Whether they’re selling themselves or whether they’re just someone you’re mad at or someone who got someone or something you wanted. That is catty and pathetic and small and mean and it is BENEATH YOU. No matter who you are. Can you really sleep at the end of the day knowing you did this to someone, no matter how much you hate them? That person has a life and parents and maybe children and people who love them. This makes YOU an asshole. This makes you a terrible person. This makes you a bully and a liar and also most likely lower than that crap that leaks out of dumpsters and smells like death.

This is you. Proud of yourself, darlin'?

This is you. Proud of yourself, darlin’?

We don’t have to like everyone in the world. Those people that I referenced above? That I hate? I’m never going to like them. Imagining them falling in a hole and dying a long, drawn-out, lonely death of starvation? Yes. I might have done that now and again. I’m not proud. I’m human. But I’m not going to put more evil out there. I’m not going to put more hatred out there in the world. We don’t need to be doing that. Whatever that person did to you to make you hate them? That’s on them. Don’t let it be on you. Don’t let it turn you into a bitter, twisted human taking revenge. Don’t let them control you like that. Because that’s what it is, you know. Them controlling you. And do you want that? Them controlling you like that? Like a puppet? That person you hate that much? I can’t imagine you do.

And, just because I’m THOROUGH, yo, I totally searched to see if there were any potential prostitutes in my area, and NO, there were NOT, but there are like a billion in Hudson, New York. And Hudson’s not even very big. That’s like a town of just whores. Like this book I read once where they put all the lepers in one town. Hudson must be where they put ALL the potential prostitutes. And I guess the johns just pop in for a bit and then go home? Huh. I have friends that grew up around there, I don’t think they ever mentioned living near Whoretown.

I don't think this looks whorey at all. It's actually kind of pretty. Hmm. Perplexing. Is there a CHANCE this site is WRONG?

I don’t think this looks whorey at all. It’s actually kind of pretty. Hmm. Perplexing. Is there a CHANCE this site is WRONG?

I looked for whores in sj‘s town but there weren’t any so I made her send me the name of the closest biggest town to her and there were STILL no whores and the only whores I could find were in the biggest city in her state and that makes me sad. Come on, small towns, you gotta step up here, whore-wise. (Soon sj will be moving and there will be more cities with whores in her new state, so that’s nice.)

Also, there are no whores at all in Finland. Sorry, Andreas.

There’s more than enough ugliness in the world, people. Let’s put a little more of the opposite out there, ok? I’m not saying you have to like everyone. Listen, I know how hard it is to love thine enemy. Do I ever know. But love more and hate less and DO NOT FOR THE LOVE OF PETE CALL PEOPLE WHORES ONLINE. Also, when are we going to get to the point where whore isn’t a huge insult, I wonder? When are we going to grow the hell UP?

Thanks. This has been a public service announcement from me. Carry on with your day. Nothing more to see here. (BE NICE TO EACH OTHER PLEASE!)


I’m not broken. It’s SCIENCE.

I read this article the other day, and it was like a light totally went on in my head.

I AM NOT BROKEN. IT IS SCIENCE.

OK, so I don’t date. I have, in the past. Sure I have. Sometimes that went better than other times. Sometimes it wasn’t painful and sometimes it was like Elaine’s favorite mode of evaluating badness and could be measured in Hindenburgs.

Never, however, did it go well. Or was it a repeated event. I’m…um…kind of the worst at dating. That’s really all I have to say about that. You’d think I’d have all these uproarious stories but mostly they range from sad to things that made numerous therapists say “um. That’s not…I don’t know what to say about that” so I don’t go into details. I promise you that you don’t want me to.

HOWEVER! I am very good at falling in love with people. If awards were given out for this? I would win them ALL. Having it be requited, well, no, those awards would not be gracing my trophy case. (SIDE NOTE: no. No, of course I don’t have a trophy case, what would I put in it, my spelling bee awards from junior high? I don’t even know where those ARE. FINE THEY’RE AT MY PARENTS’ HOUSE ARE YOU HAPPY?)  Sometimes it’s a quick thing and sometimes it takes forever but all of a sudden BAM I fall crazy in love with someone and then I’m a stupid giddy schoolgirl and eventually I end up getting my heart broken or I have to tough-love myself and say, “AMY. You stop this RIGHT NOW. This person IS NOT INTERESTED.”

OK, so anyway. I don’t date after the failed internet-dating experiment of 2005 (I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT) and I try REALLY REALLY HARD not to fall in love with people who aren’t interested (and honestly, if I fall in love with them, they’re not going to be in love with me, because I can pick ’em. Ooh, can I pick ’em. I have a RADAR for the people who aren’t going to fall in love with me. They’re the ones I want, apparently. You know that song about “I love a parade?” That’s me, only with a CHALLENGE. I love a challege!) I try hard. It doesn’t always work but I try really hard.

But then I found this article and I realized WHY I am broken and choose these people, even though they’re honestly kind of jerks most of the time. And I’m really quite intelligent otherwise.

IT IS NOT THAT I’M BROKEN IT IS SCIENCE.

Here’s the thing that all of these men have in common: they ALL do this same thing. So apparently I have a type.

They act TOTALLY INTO ME and then they act ALL COLD AND WEIRD and then they act TOTALLY INTO ME AGAIN and this goes back and forth and back and forth and I have no idea what to make of it and it’s like a person watching a tennis match until they get all dizzy and fall over. And then get hit by a bus.

You’d THINK that would make someone say, “Hey, this person I’ve hitched my wagon to, they’re an asshole, time to move on,” but NOPE. Not me! I sit around waiting for the crumbs of acknowledgement.

So I THOUGHT it was because I was broken and also quite stupid, until I read that article I linked to above. NOT BROKEN. SCIENCE!!!

It’s apparently the “allure of unpredictable romantic partners.” That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Like a romantic comedy. Possibly starring Ewan McGregor. I’d watch that. Probably while crying.

So the sciency types did this test where they gave subjects fruit juice and water and scanned their brains while doing it. The subjects’ brains lit up like a Christmas tree with dopamine when the fruit juice/water rewards came at unexpected intervals, while the brains just kind of yawned and played another hand of solitaire when the rewards came at predictable 10-second intervals.

Apparently, our brains, going back to CAVEMAN TIMES, are programmed to signal us to pay attention when something unexpected happens. They signal us by releasing dopamine. Dopamine, in case you’re not obsessed with weird-ass shit like I am, is your pleasure chemical. Among many other things, it signals a feeling of bliss. It’s one of the chemicals your body’s stewing in when you’re all stupid-giddy in love.

So being with a partner who’s unpredictable about his/her affection is like being inconsistently given fruit juice – it fires off your dopamine like a shootout at the OK Corral. The smart, thinky part of your brain might be all “THIS IS THE WORST SUCK!” but your animal brain is all “Ahhhhh that’s the stuff! SIGNAL! SIGNAL!” and is filling your brain with DRUGS. Drugs that make you feel PLEASURE.

Your brain is a dark alley on the bad side of town filled with drug pushers. Didn’t your mom teach you to stay away from those places? Tsk.

So our smart brains say “this person is bad news!” and our drugged-up brain lolling around in an opium den is all “NO NO GIMME MORE” so you’re torn and according to science you keep going back to the person, but you don’t even KNOW you’re doing this shit, because it’s happening WAY DEEP DOWN IN YOUR PSYCHE.

This is super-distressing, science.

I totally knew I was doing this, I just didn’t know there was a reason. Other than the brokenness, of course.

This reminds me of the study with the rats and the uncertain results. Our beloved Andreas attempted mightily to find me a link to this and could not, but here, I’ll let him tell you about it, he’s better than a link anyway:

(Ignore where it looks like I’ve repeated the same thing three times, that’s just because he’s responding to my tweet three times. I promise I don’t say the same thing over and over. Well, I *do*, just not that obnoxiously. MOST of the time, anyway.)

So I remember reading about this study, probably in one of my psych classes in grad school. There were these rats. And the rats were in a cage with a lever. The lever could distribute food whenever they pressed it, or the lever could be dicked with so it gave food out at unpredictable intervals.

As Andreas said, the rats that were in the cage where they knew the outcome, they’d stop on by the lever if they wanted a nosh.

The rats in the unpredictable cage would beat their little paws bloody against that lever, hoping against hope that this time, this press, this would be the one. The one that would bring the manna down from the heavens. Because it happened once. IT COULD HAPPEN AGAIN.

(I think this is probably the same mentality that leads people to gamble until they lose their homes.)

I’m the rat. I’m the beating-my-paw-bloody-against-the-lever rat.

BUT, according to SCIENCE, we ALL are. It’s not just me! It’s ALL of us! Because of the effing DOPAMINE!

Also, being a person with a screwed-up brain (no, seriously, that’s why they put people like me on antidepressants, because our seratonin and such are all out of whack) I can only assume my dopamine is probably all weird like the rest of my brain chemistry.

SCIENCE! Why are you screwing with me? It’s not bad enough you gave me bad skin, eyes, and frazzly hair? Now you have to make me fall in love with jerks, too? (Well, happy to say, most of that is in the past. Because as an adult, I just decided I’M NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE and refuse to fall in love at ALL. That’ll teach ’em. I just removed myself from the game. WINNER!)

Well, here’s a newsflash, people who think they can just be assholes because science backs you up and therefore you can just treat people’s hearts casually: science might be drugging us up, but our smart brains eventually get fed up.

Like addicts who have had enough, we finally reach a breaking point where we’re tired of waking up on some stranger’s porch wearing poorly-chosen clothing choices with a taste in our mouth akin to used kitty litter and we say NO MORE and we start attending AA. Or we go cold turkey. Or we just say, hit the road, Jack, no more of your stupid games, I’ll find someone who actually gives a shit ALL the time, not just when they feel like it or need something or just for the fun of it all.

Also, you might be a little bit of a psychopath. Just think about that for a minute, ok? If you’re not interested in someone, TELL THEM THAT. Don’t leave them hanging. Just tell them you’re not interested and let them move on, jerko.

BUT, that being SAID, I am just so pleased science has an explanation for why I’m a rat with a bloody paw. Thanks, science. You really came through. Now let’s talk about this unruly hair thing, science. SURELY YOU HAVE A REASON FOR THIS. I am tired of looking like a rooster.


It’s a war! Defend yourselves, men, we’re coming for your SOULS!

Men!

Men, listen, I am so sorry. I’m here to give you a warning.

You’re going to want to probably arm yourselves. I’m thinking crossbows? Maybe trebuchets? Boiling vats of hot oil? Vicious taunting?

MEN.

There is a WAR on you. A whole war! Just on you and your dangly bits!

How do I know this? Well, Fox News told me. Listen, guys. They’re both fair and balanced. It’s right in their slogan. So you know they’re telling the truth. I mean, if someone’s fair and balanced, how could they be telling us a falsehood?

You know this guy’s fair and balanced, as he’s the one who thinks we’re all gonna marry TURTLES.

Dad’s been telling me this for a while now, but I’ve been ignoring him. I feel terrible. Sorry, Dad. I guess you were telling me the truth all along. I’ll send you a trebuchet. You get the first trebuchet, Dad. Shit, there is a WAR on, you can’t go into this UNARMED.

According to Suzanne Venker, who you know you have to trust because she is a lady who writes for Fox News (she has written such illustrious tomes as The Flipside of Feminism and How to Choose a Husband and 7 Myths of Working Mothers, so she’s here for US, ladies, and let’s not even discuss how ironic it is she has time to write all these things as a person with lady-bits who should be serving her man and children in all things!) there is no war on women. Women have taken over the world. We get more college degrees, we’ve taken over the workforce, in other words: WE RULE.

Well. I already knew we ruled. And honestly, I don’t doubt those statistics, but only because there are more women than men (at least in MERKA!) so it would figure there were more women in the workforce and more women getting college degrees. It only makes sense.

But Ms. Venker (I bet she’d be so mad I called her Ms., so you know I’m going to keep doing it; also, I keep wanting to call her Ms. Venkman, like from Ghostbusters? Because I’m a dork) says that all the women are complaining THERE ARE NO GOOD MEN LEFT TO MARRY. And she disagrees. There are PLENTY of good men. They just don’t want to marry us. Why?

Women aren’t women anymore.

WE ARE BROKEN!

Yep. Women aren’t WOMEN anymore. And by “women,” she of course means the 50s stereotype: aproned, hair done just so, waiting at home for her man to bring home the bacon with dinner on the table and a smile on her face and dead, dead eyes. Women who pop out kids like kittens and keep their mouths shut to opinions and vote like their husbands tell them to, if their husbands encourage them to at all, and read books about the Lord.

Once, Dad gave Mom a vaccuum for their anniversary. She didn’t talk to him for a WEEK. True story!

In a nutshell, women are angry. They’re also defensive, though often unknowingly. That’s because they’ve been raised to think of men as the enemy. Armed with this new attitude, women pushed men off their pedestal (women had their own pedestal, but feminists convinced them otherwise) and climbed up to take what they were taught to believe was rightfully theirs.

Please read this paragraph again. No, seriously. Read it again, and then just soak it in for a minute.

  • “Women are angry.” Blanket generalizations are fantastic, aren’t they? I’m a woman. Let me check my internal barometer. Nope. Not angry at the moment. Are women angry sometimes? Sure they are. They’re also sometimes happy, sad, calm, jubilant, depressed, and sleepy. And – top secret info, my little jujubes? SO ARE MEN. You know why that is? WE’RE ALL HUMANS AND HAVE EMOTIONS IN OUR HEADPLACES.
  • Shit, now I don’t know if I’m defensive or not. I might be defensive and not even know it. THIS IS TERRIBLE.
  • Raised to think men were the enemy. Well, here’s the thing. I wasn’t raised to think men were the enemy. One of my primary caregivers wasn’t a huge fan of men, but that’s just one person. The rest of my people were pretty equal-opportunity. I was actually raised around a lot of men. The Lucy’s Football family was pretty man-heavy. So I’ve always liked men. (NOT LIKE THAT. Well, yes, also like that. But not SOLELY like that.) I’m not going to say I GET them, that’s silly, but I grew up surrounded by supportive, loving, intelligent, loyal men. None of whom are the enemy. Most of whom I would actually, willingly, give up my life for. Not raised to think they’re the enemy. Raised to think they were equals – and that I was their equal. Despite my lack of a penis. There’s a difference.
  • That last sentence – well, here’s the thing. I don’t disagree with most of it. I don’t think men-hating led us to attempt to claim equal-rights status – I think that was just the notion – the INSANE notion – that as humans, we deserved the same rights as everyone else. And I think we did have a pedestal. The pedestal of WIFE and MOTHER. Brainless, pretty, and useless except for breeding purposes. Who the hell wants to stay on THAT fucking pedestal? That pedestal SUCKS. I’m so lucky I was born in an era where not only was I not expected to be on that pedestal, every time someone pointed me toward that pedestal, I kicked it. With steel-toed Docs. The feminists (the way that’s phrased, can’t you just hear her SPITTING that hated word? FEMINISTS UGH) didn’t convince us otherwise. THEY OPENED OUR EYES. They said, “you are a HUMAN BEING. You deserve THE SAME RIGHTS AS EVERYONE ELSE.”
  • I guess I am angry. Huh. Well, it must be because I have a vagina and I hate men.

Don’t worry. Ms. Venker’s not done. I hope among the time it took her to write this article she was able to service her man and put her kids to bed. That’s what women are for, after all. Also clipping coupons. And hanging out at the beauty salon under those huge blowdry helmets.

But what if the dearth of good men, and ongoing battle of the sexes, is – hold on to your seats – women’s fault?

You’ll never hear that in the media. All the articles and books (and television programs, for that matter) put women front and center, while men and children sit in the back seat. But after decades of browbeating the American male, men are tired. Tired of being told there’s something fundamentally wrong with them. Tired of being told that if women aren’t happy, it’s men’s fault.

Contrary to what feminists like Hanna Rosin, author of The End of Men, say, the so-called rise of women has not threatened men. It has pissed them off. It has also undermined their ability to become self-sufficient in the hopes of someday supporting a family. Men want to love women, not compete with them. They want to provide for and protect their families – it’s in their DNA. But modern women won’t let them.

Who is telling men that if women aren’t happy, it’s their fault? Who’s telling them that? If in a relationship, people aren’t happy (the man, the woman, whoever) BOTH of them have to work to fix it. It’s not just one person’s fault. Both people have to change if it’s going to work. Or maybe it’s not going to work, I don’t know your life. Sometimes one of the people is kind of an asshole. Sometimes the people aren’t compatible. Sometimes they grow apart. But is there someone going around the world saying “MAN’S FAULT!” and pointing the finger at the men all the time? Because that’s a shitty thing to do. Some of my nearest and dearest have been in relationships that haven’t worked out. And I know damn well it wasn’t their fault. And – here’s a shocker – THEY ARE MEN. ZOMG! I know! Totally distressing, as a woman, I should probably have shaken my finger in their face and been all “YOUR FAULT!”, right?

Now I want you to read that last paragraph. NO SERIOUSLY. Really read it. (Her last paragraph, not mine.)

This paragraph makes men out to be GIGANTIC ASSHOLES.

Gigantic assholes from the 50s wearing fedoras and smoking many cigarettes and carrying the newspaper and expecting their wives to rub their feet and provide them with brisket when they get home. OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES DAMMIT.

I have male friends. And honestly, don’t you even presume to speak for them, ma’am. Don’t you even. Because honestly, if my male friends were presented with the kind of woman you are purporting they want? I think they’d just feel bad for them. And I think they’d probably wonder what was wrong with them, and wonder what kind of childhood trauma they went through that made them feel so worthless that they had to be subservient and docile, and not want to spend any time with them because who wants to spend time willingly with a Stepford wife?

My male friends? Some of whom are single, some of whom are in relationships? RESPECT powerful women. They like us to have brains. They LIKE us to think about things, to speak our minds, to be intelligent, funny, self-sufficient. They are not afraid of us because we have power. They would not want us any other way.

Women in power are AMAZING and BEAUTIFUL and STRONG. Screw you if you think otherwise. It’s a failing in yourself, not in them.

This is the only type of man I associate myself with. This is the only type of man I want anything to fucking DO with. If you, Ms. Venker, have been spending time with whiny-ass men who are all “GONE ARE THE DAYS I COULD COME HOME TO A CLEAN HOUSE AND A STEAK AND A BJ,” well, you can send those assholes right back where they came from – in a wormhole to Ozzy and Harrietville.

SO HAPPY! Except for the missing part. You can’t see that. The missing part is her SOUL.

Also, IT IS NOT IN THEIR DNA. No more than it is in WOMEN’S DNA. THAT IS NOT HOW SCIENCE WORKS. You can’t just make up science. We ALL want to provide for and protect our families. Are you telling me, ma’am, that single moms don’t want to provide for and protect their families? Because they have, what, unicorns and kittens in their DNA?

Also, “modern women won’t LET them?” I FORBID YOU, MAN I LOVE, TO PROVIDE FOR OR PROTECT MY FAMILY! Yeah, that happens a lot, I think. Probably all the damn time.

Well, listen. I haven’t written EXTENSIVE BOOKS about how women are ruining men, or anything, and based on this article, I am the enemy, but here are my two cents. Not that you asked for them. And not that I’d spare you two cents; I mean, I’m sure your husband is the sole provider in your family, right, ma’am? You don’t get paid for writing these articles, right? Or those books? Or for going on the extensive speaking tours you advertise on your slick website?

You are out of your everloving mind. And – AND, worst of all – you’re poisoning the minds of people I care about.

My dad thinks this shit is true. My dad saw this on your damnable television channel and ACTUALLY TOLD ME that the war on women was to cover up the actual war on men that’s going on. (Also, he’s quite sure if I were more ladylike, I’d be married right now. “But then I wouldn’t be me!” I said. He thought about this for a minute. “That’s true. I like you the way you are. I guess stay the way you are. Could you pretend to be a lady to catch a man? That might work.” “NO DAD I AM NOT USING CHICANERY TO HOOK ME A FELLA,” I replied.)

It’s not a war. It’s EVOLUTION. It’s PROGRESS. Other countries have been doing this – and doing it RIGHT, and without a COMPLAINT – for YEARS. Why in Merka is it something we have to write articles about, bemoaning the lack of 50s sensibilities? Listen, both of my grandmothers REVEL in the freedoms women today have that women in their day didn’t.

This article is 50% you trolling us (I’m sure Fox encouraged you to write it, and to include such inflammatory language) and 50% shit you believe. And Ms. Venker, that makes me sad. Because you are raising children. Who are looking to you to be an example. You are poisoning young minds. This utterly terrifies me.

Women: don’t let anyone tell you there’s no war on us. Men – the small-minded ones – are terrified of our power. Because we are powerful. And there are a LOT of us. And if we banded together, oh, the change for the better we could make.

Thanks to the amazing sj – a woman of power if there ever was one – for this image!

And men? Well, shit. I’m so sorry war’s been declared on the Kingdom of Your Genitalia. Expect your trebuchets in the mail in 3-5 business days. Well, except for those of you in Europe. Shipping costs to your lands are a little prohibitive so I gotta send those via the slow boat. Protect yourselves with vegetable peelers for the time being.

BE SAFE OUT THERE, MENFOLKS.

We’re comin’ for you.


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