February 2008 Archives
So, I've attempted suicide 3 times, all over 10 years ago. Statistically, that means I'm more likely to succeed on my next attempt, assuming I make one.
And now I read that I'm three times more likely than my married peers to top myself.
I wonder why they're publishing this, in this manner, at this time of year. Especially considering that single men are three times more likely than single women to die by suicide. Really, I can't imagine what they're trying to say to unmarried women... Can't see it at all...
And now I read that I'm three times more likely than my married peers to top myself.
I wonder why they're publishing this, in this manner, at this time of year. Especially considering that single men are three times more likely than single women to die by suicide. Really, I can't imagine what they're trying to say to unmarried women... Can't see it at all...
"What's the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Mind you, there are some things that do turn out differently each time we try them. We have to be very careful with definitions. What's crazy for one person can be perfectly logical for another. You are trying to work out whether you have crossed a line you should have kept away from, or whether you have yet to reach a line that you ought to keep walking towards. You can't work it out. Trust what you feel. The cosmic blueprint of your life was written in code across the sky at the moment you were born."
Today's stars for Aquarius from cainer.com
Today's stars for Aquarius from cainer.com
The strangest thing just happened. Mum just told me the my cousin is getting married on July 4th. She said that I will be invited, and as I replied "Do I have to go? I don't really want to go to any weddings." I felt myself well up and my throat constrict. I hope they have a lovely day, but quite frankly, it would be an extended day of torture for me. I have no urge to get married, and I really doubt that I would, even if I did find someone that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. But I also realise that that makes me a bit weird. I don't drink much anymore, so to spend a whole day being on the receiving end of the sympathy and crass encouragement (No, it will never be me next, not if I have anything to do with it) for not being married already, and then to have to do all that with my brother as my 'date' would have me doing a Barney Gumble at the reception bar before the photographer was done.
And, the shamefully pathetic part, I wish someone loved me enough to want a future with me.
And, the shamefully pathetic part, I wish someone loved me enough to want a future with me.
Shuffle slightly to the side, Bob Herbert. There's another journalist who I just want to kiss for getting it so damned right, in a profession that seems rife with perpetuating the wrong. Step up, Joan Smith, of the Independent, for the article entitled 'Murders that demand a radical shift in attitudes'. I'm half tempted to just quote the entire thing, because as I say, she just has it so concisely right. The only thing I would change is that she writes for the Independent so is kind of mostly preaching to the choir; it's a left-wing liberal paper.
I just listened to The Moral Maze on Radio 4. This week they were discussing the morality of prostitution. They kept referring to it as the 'sex industry', but were only talking about prostitution, not pornography.
Should I ever have the misfortune top meet Michael Portillo, I will at the very least shake him by the shoulders until his head blurs. His reason for not legislating against prostitution, whether it's making the buying or selling of sex illegal, was that there is a number of women, says he, who have chosen to go into prostitution for no other reason than they want to and that they enjoy their work. He doesn't want to criminalise the willing buyers or the willing sellers. So he'll be for legalising the sale of hard drugs then? There are plenty willing sellers and willing customers for any and every drug you care to name.
One person, other than the woman who founded and represented the Feminist Coalition Against Prostitution (who just made sense from beginning to end, unlike pretty much all the others) made a good point. Instead of only focussing on protitution, more energy should be spent on addressing the issues that lead women into prostitution. Easy to say, harder to do, admittedly, but just stopping prostitution tomorrow would not suddenly fix the issues that the women in prostitution have.
Should I ever have the misfortune top meet Michael Portillo, I will at the very least shake him by the shoulders until his head blurs. His reason for not legislating against prostitution, whether it's making the buying or selling of sex illegal, was that there is a number of women, says he, who have chosen to go into prostitution for no other reason than they want to and that they enjoy their work. He doesn't want to criminalise the willing buyers or the willing sellers. So he'll be for legalising the sale of hard drugs then? There are plenty willing sellers and willing customers for any and every drug you care to name.
One person, other than the woman who founded and represented the Feminist Coalition Against Prostitution (who just made sense from beginning to end, unlike pretty much all the others) made a good point. Instead of only focussing on protitution, more energy should be spent on addressing the issues that lead women into prostitution. Easy to say, harder to do, admittedly, but just stopping prostitution tomorrow would not suddenly fix the issues that the women in prostitution have.
Last night, I was doing my usual catch-up of the feminist blogs. This article on Feministing caught my attention, and then my head exploded. Straight up. I fumbled around blindly to get as many pieces as I could and stuck them back together with super glue and sellotape. I think they hypothalamus is back in upside-down, but other than that, it's pretty much like normal.
It's difficult to critique the Op-Ed piece from Sunday's L.A. Times (the 2nd link) because I haven't actually been able to finish it. Partly because I'm getting tired of scraping my grey matter off the various surfaces of my room and partly because the ideas that the author is putting forward are an entire anathema to me. I would rather spend the rest of my life in a bath full of tarantulas than have to read any more of it, only eating raw liver and occasionally getting out to be suspended over a very high and sheer drop.
Of what I did manage to read, this part strikes me as missing the point so completely that she's in the next star system with it.
"Rather than asking female students about rape per se, Koss asked them if they had ever experienced actions that she then classified as rape. One question, for example, asked, "Have you had sexual intercourse when you didn't want to because a man gave you alcohol or drugs?" -- a question that is ambiguous on several fronts, including the woman's degree of incapacitation, the causal relation between being given a drink and having sexual intercourse, and the man's intentions. Koss' method produced the 25% rate, which Ms. then published.
It was a flawed study on a number of levels, but the most powerful refutation came from her own subjects: 73% of the women whom the study characterized as rape victims told the researchers that they hadn't been raped. Further, 42% of the study's supposed victims said they had had intercourse again with their alleged assailants -- though it is highly unlikely that a raped woman would have sex again with the fiend who attacked her." [emphasis mine, all mine]
Speaking from my own experience, and what I know anaecdotally, many survivors do not identify as having been raped because of articles and attitudes like this. I would very much like to know what Heather MacDonald thinks does qualify as rape, if it's not forced sexual contact. She is by far and away not the only person who thinks it's only rape if it's a stranger who, foaming at the mouth, leaps out and drags the woman into nearby bushes to rape her.
I had sex with Iain several times after he raped me. I didn't identify that experience as rape until very recently. For a long time I didn't let myself think about it, becuase to admit that that had happened meant admitting that I didn't have control of the situation. After it happened, I think that I may even have consented to sex to try to regain the control I had lost. By the author's logic, Iain also didn't hit me because, if he had, why would I have gone back to him?
A commenter provided a link to another article, which just goes to show that rape and sexual violence are getting normalised, to the extent where teenage girls are growing up to think that it's just a part of life.
And now I'd better go; I have to scrape what looks like the parietal lobe off the wardrobe.
It's difficult to critique the Op-Ed piece from Sunday's L.A. Times (the 2nd link) because I haven't actually been able to finish it. Partly because I'm getting tired of scraping my grey matter off the various surfaces of my room and partly because the ideas that the author is putting forward are an entire anathema to me. I would rather spend the rest of my life in a bath full of tarantulas than have to read any more of it, only eating raw liver and occasionally getting out to be suspended over a very high and sheer drop.
Of what I did manage to read, this part strikes me as missing the point so completely that she's in the next star system with it.
"Rather than asking female students about rape per se, Koss asked them if they had ever experienced actions that she then classified as rape. One question, for example, asked, "Have you had sexual intercourse when you didn't want to because a man gave you alcohol or drugs?" -- a question that is ambiguous on several fronts, including the woman's degree of incapacitation, the causal relation between being given a drink and having sexual intercourse, and the man's intentions. Koss' method produced the 25% rate, which Ms. then published.
It was a flawed study on a number of levels, but the most powerful refutation came from her own subjects: 73% of the women whom the study characterized as rape victims told the researchers that they hadn't been raped. Further, 42% of the study's supposed victims said they had had intercourse again with their alleged assailants -- though it is highly unlikely that a raped woman would have sex again with the fiend who attacked her." [emphasis mine, all mine]
Speaking from my own experience, and what I know anaecdotally, many survivors do not identify as having been raped because of articles and attitudes like this. I would very much like to know what Heather MacDonald thinks does qualify as rape, if it's not forced sexual contact. She is by far and away not the only person who thinks it's only rape if it's a stranger who, foaming at the mouth, leaps out and drags the woman into nearby bushes to rape her.
I had sex with Iain several times after he raped me. I didn't identify that experience as rape until very recently. For a long time I didn't let myself think about it, becuase to admit that that had happened meant admitting that I didn't have control of the situation. After it happened, I think that I may even have consented to sex to try to regain the control I had lost. By the author's logic, Iain also didn't hit me because, if he had, why would I have gone back to him?
A commenter provided a link to another article, which just goes to show that rape and sexual violence are getting normalised, to the extent where teenage girls are growing up to think that it's just a part of life.
And now I'd better go; I have to scrape what looks like the parietal lobe off the wardrobe.
You may recall Aquarius' recent post about happiness and the apparant over-prescription of anti-depressants.
A team at the University of Hull have published a study that posits that SSRIs are pretty much useless. The studies looked at appear to only involve certain drugs, fluoxetine (aka Prozac), paroxetine (aka Seroxat, aka the one that makes you suicidal) and venlafaxine (aka Efexor) are the ones named. (I've included a bunch of links of basically the same report, but from different sources, just for comparison. Imagine my stunned surprise to see the the Daily Fail's report is the most emotive and has the most narrative.)
The first one I tried was paroxetine. It's half-life is so short that if you don't take it every day, within a couple of hours of when you're supposed to take it, you start getting the dizzies and the brain shocks. That was why I went over to sertraline. I must've been on that for quite a while, a few years, though I did stop taking it for a few months, a few years back. That period went so well, I went back on it and have been taking pills almost every day since then. Last summer, the sertraline stared to make me feel extremely nauseous, so after attempting to 'cope' for a couple of months, I was back at the doctor and am now on citalopram.
My GP in Dundee once described me as a "functional depressive", and told me that I will probably have to stay on the meds for the rest of my life. Quite simply, without the tablets, I would quite probably have killed myself long ago, or be in a psychiatric hospital. I can only talk about my illness from the inside, because that's my experience and I have no idea what it's like for anyone else. Equally, I don't like it much when people attempt to liken my experience to theirs, especially when it's not. Empathy is one thing, sympathy is another. I've met a lot of people who have been depressed, but have now recovered. I'm glad for them, and I certainly don't begrudge their happiness. And I'm hardly going to get narky because they're happy again. A less charitable person might describe someone saying "I was depressed too" to someone like me as being like someone dancing infront of a cripple (with thanks to Bill Hicks there).
Anyway, I disappeared off on a tanget there...
From the rather wonderful Astonished Head, an ad that could describe almost any SSRI.
A team at the University of Hull have published a study that posits that SSRIs are pretty much useless. The studies looked at appear to only involve certain drugs, fluoxetine (aka Prozac), paroxetine (aka Seroxat, aka the one that makes you suicidal) and venlafaxine (aka Efexor) are the ones named. (I've included a bunch of links of basically the same report, but from different sources, just for comparison. Imagine my stunned surprise to see the the Daily Fail's report is the most emotive and has the most narrative.)
The first one I tried was paroxetine. It's half-life is so short that if you don't take it every day, within a couple of hours of when you're supposed to take it, you start getting the dizzies and the brain shocks. That was why I went over to sertraline. I must've been on that for quite a while, a few years, though I did stop taking it for a few months, a few years back. That period went so well, I went back on it and have been taking pills almost every day since then. Last summer, the sertraline stared to make me feel extremely nauseous, so after attempting to 'cope' for a couple of months, I was back at the doctor and am now on citalopram.
My GP in Dundee once described me as a "functional depressive", and told me that I will probably have to stay on the meds for the rest of my life. Quite simply, without the tablets, I would quite probably have killed myself long ago, or be in a psychiatric hospital. I can only talk about my illness from the inside, because that's my experience and I have no idea what it's like for anyone else. Equally, I don't like it much when people attempt to liken my experience to theirs, especially when it's not. Empathy is one thing, sympathy is another. I've met a lot of people who have been depressed, but have now recovered. I'm glad for them, and I certainly don't begrudge their happiness. And I'm hardly going to get narky because they're happy again. A less charitable person might describe someone saying "I was depressed too" to someone like me as being like someone dancing infront of a cripple (with thanks to Bill Hicks there).
Anyway, I disappeared off on a tanget there...
From the rather wonderful Astonished Head, an ad that could describe almost any SSRI.
That GrandCentral thing that's mentioned in the Blogger Buzz sounds interesting. That said, I have Skype and have barely used it.
Anyway. I was a little nervy about work yesterday, before I started. I think it was mostly because I've never really spent any time with anyone who has Down's Syndrome before, so was unsure of what to expect, really. It's one thing to read about the condition, but to put it into practise isn't the same. On the upside, it meant that I had no expectations, and just did what seemed right for the client as best as I could. We went into the town centre, and I noticed that she would hide her head in my shoulder quite often. I wasn't entirely sure why that was, but then a bit later, she said that she didn't like people looking at her. It broke my heart a little, and made me want to get a big, pointy stick to poke out the eyes of the people who do stare. I realise that involves cruelty to children, but dammit, my client has certain rights to her life too, involving dignity and privacy. I guess I can understand why small children stare, up to a point (I've never quite worked out why they stare at me so much, unless it's because I'm taller than usual, or because I wear glasses, or because I have bits of metal in unusual places in my face. They also tend to be slightly afraid looking, so maybe they can also see the wings of iron feathers?) but children who are old enough to know both that Down's exists and that it's rude to stare? Anyway, she's such a lovely person, with such a sunny disposition, that I told her it's because she's pretty (which she is) and because these people are just jealous because she's so nice and they're not. Also true, as far as I'm concerned. I don't recall seeing anyone staring, but then, my focus was the client and making sure she was ok.
My last client yesterday was the woman who I mentioned the other day, the me-in-40-years one. I got to her a bit later than expected (the Higher powers of public transport are still somewhat disgruntled) and she'd had a fall while out in the afternoon that had required stitches. I was scheduled half an hour, but I enjoyed her company so much (and she enjoyed mine too, I didn't inflict my precense on her) I decided to stay after I was finished. I think I was there for about 2 hours or so! We were talking about Camus and poetry and politics, all kinds of things. I can sort of justify it professionally; I was a bit concerned that she might have been concussed and I wanted to be sure that she was ok, and I get the feeling that there aren't many people who she can talk to about this kind of thing (flattering myself there). But, personally, I really enjoyed talking with her and didn't want to leave. Next week, I have a new client to visit after her, so certainly can't overrun, but I am thinking about maybe visiting her personally. I'll need to find out if that's permissable. It might have to wait until she no longer receives care from us. But I feel that we've made a connection, she's a kindred spirit, and it would be a shame to not keep in touch with her.
Anyway. Today's my day off, so I'm planning a relaxing day of rearranging bedroom furniture and killing things in Ferelas.
Anyway. I was a little nervy about work yesterday, before I started. I think it was mostly because I've never really spent any time with anyone who has Down's Syndrome before, so was unsure of what to expect, really. It's one thing to read about the condition, but to put it into practise isn't the same. On the upside, it meant that I had no expectations, and just did what seemed right for the client as best as I could. We went into the town centre, and I noticed that she would hide her head in my shoulder quite often. I wasn't entirely sure why that was, but then a bit later, she said that she didn't like people looking at her. It broke my heart a little, and made me want to get a big, pointy stick to poke out the eyes of the people who do stare. I realise that involves cruelty to children, but dammit, my client has certain rights to her life too, involving dignity and privacy. I guess I can understand why small children stare, up to a point (I've never quite worked out why they stare at me so much, unless it's because I'm taller than usual, or because I wear glasses, or because I have bits of metal in unusual places in my face. They also tend to be slightly afraid looking, so maybe they can also see the wings of iron feathers?) but children who are old enough to know both that Down's exists and that it's rude to stare? Anyway, she's such a lovely person, with such a sunny disposition, that I told her it's because she's pretty (which she is) and because these people are just jealous because she's so nice and they're not. Also true, as far as I'm concerned. I don't recall seeing anyone staring, but then, my focus was the client and making sure she was ok.
My last client yesterday was the woman who I mentioned the other day, the me-in-40-years one. I got to her a bit later than expected (the Higher powers of public transport are still somewhat disgruntled) and she'd had a fall while out in the afternoon that had required stitches. I was scheduled half an hour, but I enjoyed her company so much (and she enjoyed mine too, I didn't inflict my precense on her) I decided to stay after I was finished. I think I was there for about 2 hours or so! We were talking about Camus and poetry and politics, all kinds of things. I can sort of justify it professionally; I was a bit concerned that she might have been concussed and I wanted to be sure that she was ok, and I get the feeling that there aren't many people who she can talk to about this kind of thing (flattering myself there). But, personally, I really enjoyed talking with her and didn't want to leave. Next week, I have a new client to visit after her, so certainly can't overrun, but I am thinking about maybe visiting her personally. I'll need to find out if that's permissable. It might have to wait until she no longer receives care from us. But I feel that we've made a connection, she's a kindred spirit, and it would be a shame to not keep in touch with her.
Anyway. Today's my day off, so I'm planning a relaxing day of rearranging bedroom furniture and killing things in Ferelas.
It seems that the UK news is nose-to-tail sexual violence today. The following links are all to various articles BBC news website, I'm reasonably sure that they were all published today (I never thought to check the dates at the top of them I must admit), they were all headline stories, I didn't do much to find them, other than clicking on each heading for the 4 countries that make up the United Kingdom. Some of the cases are notable, in their specific details, but I could post more or less the same kind of thing once a week and never mention the same case twice. And this is only the cases that are reported by the BBC. Another news source may have other cases. Rape trials aren't reported much because there's so little that is allowed to be reported. It's a crime that's rarely deemed news-worthy. Anecdotal back-up to that; one of the other women in my team has a friend who works in the High Court in Glasgow. Her job involves handling evidence; signing it in and out and so on. She apparently sees lots of rape trials pass through on a daily basis. And nary a whisper in the press.
The man who I mentioned previously, who was standing trial for the murder of 5 women in Ipswich was found guilty, unanimously, yesterday and sentenced today. He will die in prison. In the news after the verdict yesterday, Steve Wright was described as a "monster". I don't agree with that; he was functioning quite normally in society right up until his arrest. He was, I think, working, and had a partner who he lived with. A letter he wrote to his father while remanded was released to the media; what I infer from it is that he's placing all responsibility on other things and people. And he's maintaining his innocence.
Oh, and the apparent interchangableness (if that's not a word, it is now) of 'prostitutes' and 'women (who were working as prostitutes)' is driving me near insane. Gemma Adams, Paula Clennell, Anneli Alderton, Tanya Nicol and Annette Nicholls were more than just 'prostitutes'; they had lives and families, and the same right to live as the rest of us. The laziness of the media sometimes riles me so much...
Linked directly from the page described above; police in the same county are seeking a rapist.
Oop 't grim north, a woman was raped on a street in Stockon-on-Tees. At least 5 people drove past, very close by, during the attack. Not one stopped to help, or even try. I think I blogged about this before but I was so enraged, I can't clearly recall. The Daily Male readers that commented on the report made me ashamed to be human. Anyway; an arrest has been made. I desperately hope that the woman gets justice. And, despite him beating her up quite badly, and probably being a threat to other woman, he's been given bail! I'm still not exactly thrilled with humanity...
Yet another male is trotting out the 'it wasn't me, guv' defence. Why do some people seem utterly resistant to the notion that the Crown Prosecution Service will only take a case to court if they feel that they have a reasonable chance of winning? And that for that to really get off the ground, there has to be at least some evidence? I'm well aware that the police are falliable, as are the CPS, but to hear some people tell it, everyone in the British criminal justice system is nothing more than an incompetent monkey. (That's just the judges that rule bizarrely in trials involving sexual violence.)
It seems to never end...
This case has an extra layer of horror to it; the perpetrator admitted to 'having sex' with the victim (and notice that I use the word victim here) but claimed to not be the one who killed her. Now, I was reading Debs' blog the other day, and she beat me to it. One does not 'have sex' with a dead body. One cannot get consent from a dead body. Something tells me it is also nigh on impossible to get consent from a woman who has been stabbed so badly that she was dying of her injuries, even if she was not, at that moment, dead. To quote Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats, "Consent is an active decision, not the absence of refusal." Do I have to spell it out? (If you've already got it, feel free to skip ahead; otherwise - the guy is a murderer and a rapist.)
A serial abuser is being released from prison in Northern Ireland. He was sentence to 2 years, has served 11 months in remand and will be out again within months. The assault for which he is currently doing time for took place 3 months after he got out of prison in Eire, for a similar assault...
Police in N. Ireland are launching a campaign about the effect of domestic violence on children. It sounds very similar to a campaign that started recently here in Scotland. I take slight issue with the notion that children are 'forgotten' in these cases; I can't recall sources just now, but I'm reasonably sure that many, many women will only take action to leave an abusive relationship when the children are put at risk of harm. But then, I guess the method of guilting women out of an abusive relationship, because otherwise what kind of mother would she be? hasn't been tried before, and some bright spark seems to think it could work. And how dare the direct "percieved victim" (usually female) take all the attention?
I do hope that this man isn't put into an open prison again... Actually, I'm kind of surprised that he was in an open prison, considering his crime at that time was attempted murder of a policeman. I've never really understood why murdering a police officer is worse than killing a civilian; maybe someone can explain it to me sometime. But I do know that they really don't like it.
Something inside me cries on reading this, but I am not too surprised, if I'm honest. Children are overwhelmed with the sexualised imagery of the adult world; boys are brought up to think that it's perfectly ok to do whatever they like to girls. Girls are brought up to think the same thing, to some extent, too. And it give creedence, possibly, that sex education doesn't encourage children to 'experiment' sexually.
And, lastly, a decent sentence for a man who assaulted several young people, raped at least one girl and then absconded in an attempt to evade justice. I find myself very curious about his wife who has gone on record to say "I'm supporting my husband and we are going to try and get the outcome he deserves. I don't doubt his innocence." I don't doubt for a second that he's manipulated her, too. I find myself wondering, similarly, about the partner of Steve Wright, the man who murdered the 5 women in Ipswich (see the top of the post, if you can be bothered scrolling all the way back up). Not that I necessaily think any less of them, or would dream of holding them responsible in any way for the crimes of their partners. I just wonder what their lives are like, and how they cope with everything.
*I'd love to take credit for this but it's an analogy that I've stolen from Melissa @ Shakesville.
The man who I mentioned previously, who was standing trial for the murder of 5 women in Ipswich was found guilty, unanimously, yesterday and sentenced today. He will die in prison. In the news after the verdict yesterday, Steve Wright was described as a "monster". I don't agree with that; he was functioning quite normally in society right up until his arrest. He was, I think, working, and had a partner who he lived with. A letter he wrote to his father while remanded was released to the media; what I infer from it is that he's placing all responsibility on other things and people. And he's maintaining his innocence.
Oh, and the apparent interchangableness (if that's not a word, it is now) of 'prostitutes' and 'women (who were working as prostitutes)' is driving me near insane. Gemma Adams, Paula Clennell, Anneli Alderton, Tanya Nicol and Annette Nicholls were more than just 'prostitutes'; they had lives and families, and the same right to live as the rest of us. The laziness of the media sometimes riles me so much...
Linked directly from the page described above; police in the same county are seeking a rapist.
Oop 't grim north, a woman was raped on a street in Stockon-on-Tees. At least 5 people drove past, very close by, during the attack. Not one stopped to help, or even try. I think I blogged about this before but I was so enraged, I can't clearly recall. The Daily Male readers that commented on the report made me ashamed to be human. Anyway; an arrest has been made. I desperately hope that the woman gets justice. And, despite him beating her up quite badly, and probably being a threat to other woman, he's been given bail! I'm still not exactly thrilled with humanity...
Yet another male is trotting out the 'it wasn't me, guv' defence. Why do some people seem utterly resistant to the notion that the Crown Prosecution Service will only take a case to court if they feel that they have a reasonable chance of winning? And that for that to really get off the ground, there has to be at least some evidence? I'm well aware that the police are falliable, as are the CPS, but to hear some people tell it, everyone in the British criminal justice system is nothing more than an incompetent monkey. (That's just the judges that rule bizarrely in trials involving sexual violence.)
It seems to never end...
This case has an extra layer of horror to it; the perpetrator admitted to 'having sex' with the victim (and notice that I use the word victim here) but claimed to not be the one who killed her. Now, I was reading Debs' blog the other day, and she beat me to it. One does not 'have sex' with a dead body. One cannot get consent from a dead body. Something tells me it is also nigh on impossible to get consent from a woman who has been stabbed so badly that she was dying of her injuries, even if she was not, at that moment, dead. To quote Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats, "Consent is an active decision, not the absence of refusal." Do I have to spell it out? (If you've already got it, feel free to skip ahead; otherwise - the guy is a murderer and a rapist.)
A serial abuser is being released from prison in Northern Ireland. He was sentence to 2 years, has served 11 months in remand and will be out again within months. The assault for which he is currently doing time for took place 3 months after he got out of prison in Eire, for a similar assault...
Police in N. Ireland are launching a campaign about the effect of domestic violence on children. It sounds very similar to a campaign that started recently here in Scotland. I take slight issue with the notion that children are 'forgotten' in these cases; I can't recall sources just now, but I'm reasonably sure that many, many women will only take action to leave an abusive relationship when the children are put at risk of harm. But then, I guess the method of guilting women out of an abusive relationship, because otherwise what kind of mother would she be? hasn't been tried before, and some bright spark seems to think it could work. And how dare the direct "percieved victim" (usually female) take all the attention?
I do hope that this man isn't put into an open prison again... Actually, I'm kind of surprised that he was in an open prison, considering his crime at that time was attempted murder of a policeman. I've never really understood why murdering a police officer is worse than killing a civilian; maybe someone can explain it to me sometime. But I do know that they really don't like it.
Something inside me cries on reading this, but I am not too surprised, if I'm honest. Children are overwhelmed with the sexualised imagery of the adult world; boys are brought up to think that it's perfectly ok to do whatever they like to girls. Girls are brought up to think the same thing, to some extent, too. And it give creedence, possibly, that sex education doesn't encourage children to 'experiment' sexually.
And, lastly, a decent sentence for a man who assaulted several young people, raped at least one girl and then absconded in an attempt to evade justice. I find myself very curious about his wife who has gone on record to say "I'm supporting my husband and we are going to try and get the outcome he deserves. I don't doubt his innocence." I don't doubt for a second that he's manipulated her, too. I find myself wondering, similarly, about the partner of Steve Wright, the man who murdered the 5 women in Ipswich (see the top of the post, if you can be bothered scrolling all the way back up). Not that I necessaily think any less of them, or would dream of holding them responsible in any way for the crimes of their partners. I just wonder what their lives are like, and how they cope with everything.
*I'd love to take credit for this but it's an analogy that I've stolen from Melissa @ Shakesville.
I met a client this afternoon, she is pretty much what I expect to be in 40 years. What I hope to be in 40 years. The future, in one regard at least, isn't quite so scary now. And 40 years doesn't feel such a long time.
Along with upsetting the higher powers that control public transport in the Strathclyde region on Monday, I appear to have pissed off the higher powers of meterology too.
It's not a very nice day, quite windy and so on. However, between 12.05 and 12.30 today, it was really nasty. I got to the end of the drive (which is about 2 car-lengths) and I noticed a few drops of rain. Two minutes later, at the end of the road, it was raining properly. Still too windy for an umbrella, and I've lost the detachable hood for my winter coat. Not that it's really any use on a windy day, but how and ever. By the time I got to the centre of town, it was pissing down, and my hair was pretty wet. Once on the client's street, it started hailing. It was horizontal and into my face, which was a special delight. By the time I got to the client's house, I was dripping from my sleeves, the bottom of my coat, my dry-clean-only scarf, my hair and my glasses. Drookit. I left a series of alarmingly large puddles across the kitchen floor.
On putting my noticably heavier coat to leave, the sun came out. It's still very windy, so I'm somewhat blow-dried.
It's not a very nice day, quite windy and so on. However, between 12.05 and 12.30 today, it was really nasty. I got to the end of the drive (which is about 2 car-lengths) and I noticed a few drops of rain. Two minutes later, at the end of the road, it was raining properly. Still too windy for an umbrella, and I've lost the detachable hood for my winter coat. Not that it's really any use on a windy day, but how and ever. By the time I got to the centre of town, it was pissing down, and my hair was pretty wet. Once on the client's street, it started hailing. It was horizontal and into my face, which was a special delight. By the time I got to the client's house, I was dripping from my sleeves, the bottom of my coat, my dry-clean-only scarf, my hair and my glasses. Drookit. I left a series of alarmingly large puddles across the kitchen floor.
On putting my noticably heavier coat to leave, the sun came out. It's still very windy, so I'm somewhat blow-dried.
Did I mention, most of the setlist at the gig seemed to be spookily appropriate? If it turned out that Billy was stalking my blog, I wouldn't be overly surprised. A bit flustered, very flattered and somewhat non-plussed, but not much with the surprisedness.
The radiator in my bedroom now works. The plumber came today and cleared a mass of gook from the pipes.
When one sees earthworms on the pavement on wet days, should one put them on earthy ground? Should I do more than just think about it?
Why do I keep forgetting that Zoma has a rather nice purple Hawkstrider, and keep running about Azeroth on foot?
What if I've been wrong about something for the past 6 months, and gotten it entirely the wrong way round? It's possible that he really is absolutely daft about me, as daft as I am about him, but is somehow convinced that doing anything about it would be a bad idea. It's about as equally possible that I am, in fact, the second coming of some major deity that I don't believe in.
Well, off to read another 2 paragraphs about the Chinese Communist Party, then fall asleep. It's having a remarkably soporific effect. It's such a thick book, it's going to take me a good 2 years to get through it, though I will be well-rested.
When one sees earthworms on the pavement on wet days, should one put them on earthy ground? Should I do more than just think about it?
Why do I keep forgetting that Zoma has a rather nice purple Hawkstrider, and keep running about Azeroth on foot?
What if I've been wrong about something for the past 6 months, and gotten it entirely the wrong way round? It's possible that he really is absolutely daft about me, as daft as I am about him, but is somehow convinced that doing anything about it would be a bad idea. It's about as equally possible that I am, in fact, the second coming of some major deity that I don't believe in.
Well, off to read another 2 paragraphs about the Chinese Communist Party, then fall asleep. It's having a remarkably soporific effect. It's such a thick book, it's going to take me a good 2 years to get through it, though I will be well-rested.
Via StatCounter, I discovered a new blog directory called Blogged.com. It became rapidly apparent that my blog had been submitted to the directory, and I had a minor freak out. Not entirely unfounded; there's machinations behind the curtain that I haven't even alluded to (except in the most indirect manner imaginable, and lo, it hasn't apparently worked) and the timing of it was enough to make me go... well, not to my happy place that's filled with fairy lights and glitter and raindrops insence and molten chocolate to lick off the fingers of my true love and oh, my, I'm getting distracted how vacuous I can be, but can I stay in my happy place please? Please? Aww.. Anyway. So I emailed the support team to try to clarify the situation. And they did, by swiftly mailing back. And it wasn't just some form reply. I'm quite impressed by that. Looks like I somehow came to the attention of one of their editors at the end of January, and they say fit to add me. How very gratifying! It never ceases to amaze me that some people come here and actually read what I'm writing. More than that, they like what I'm writing. Not that I'm meaning to belittle my blogging circle, far from it. If you guys weren't there, I might not say so much, or explore some things that I have, or had the confidence to say what I really wanted to say. Does that make sense? I'm not sure it does to me...
Which reminds me; the memey thing about blogrolls - I just wanted to say ta for the very complimentary things people said about me and my writing. I'd probably best stop there before I find myself still simpering on in half an hour when I really should be in bed.
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Work landmark today; emptied my first komode, without retching, or even feeling like I might. Not that I've done it before but ruined it by throwing up. Thus far (2 days in) I've also managed to not give the client food poisoning, neither knock her down the stairs, nor trip her up on the way to the kitchen.
I freely acknowledge that this is probably entirely atypical of most clients, but Mrs. M is very easy to work with. I can't quite believe that I'm actually getting paid to do this.
Which reminds me; the memey thing about blogrolls - I just wanted to say ta for the very complimentary things people said about me and my writing. I'd probably best stop there before I find myself still simpering on in half an hour when I really should be in bed.
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Work landmark today; emptied my first komode, without retching, or even feeling like I might. Not that I've done it before but ruined it by throwing up. Thus far (2 days in) I've also managed to not give the client food poisoning, neither knock her down the stairs, nor trip her up on the way to the kitchen.
I freely acknowledge that this is probably entirely atypical of most clients, but Mrs. M is very easy to work with. I can't quite believe that I'm actually getting paid to do this.
Walking back from the client's house after lunch yesterday, I passed a group of 3 guys, probably about the age of 20 - 22. They were in their sportswear and taking up the entire pavement, as these guys do. I just glanced at them, as I was texting my Mum and wanted to make sure I didn't walk into them or a lamp post. Just as they passed, the one closest to me sort of growled "Saucy" at me. Maybe he thought it was a sexy voice. More likely, he intended it to be intimidating because that's how it came over. What else could it have been? It had no quality of inviting me into discourse, it was simply because I'm female and therefore sexually available, to some degree, to any guy who chooses, apparently. I'm not a person, worthy of respect, or even any say in the matter. It's a simple way of letting me know that that guy believes he has power over women. If he wants me, he'll have me.
I was too gaked out to even slow down, let alone reply. Responding "Not that you'll ever find out" is just encouraging them, isn't it? Engaging with them in any way validates the behaviour, even if it's a negative reinforcement, isn't it? Guys who do that capitalise on the fear that woman have to get away with behaviour like that. If I had challenged them, how do you think they would have behaved? Would they have stopped, apologised and thought about what they were doing? Would they have invaded my personal space, rubbished my complaint, claimed it was a joke (or worse, a compliment) and started behaving in a physically threatening manner? If they're using words and attitude to assert their dominance over women in the street that they don't know, what might they do to assert their dominance over a woman in the street who rejects their status quo? It's enough that I think they might have done that, no matter how slim the possibility. And just think; if I had challenged them and they had become threatening and they had assaulted me, physically or sexually, how many people would say that I had some part of the blame because I didn't just ignore them?
I was too gaked out to even slow down, let alone reply. Responding "Not that you'll ever find out" is just encouraging them, isn't it? Engaging with them in any way validates the behaviour, even if it's a negative reinforcement, isn't it? Guys who do that capitalise on the fear that woman have to get away with behaviour like that. If I had challenged them, how do you think they would have behaved? Would they have stopped, apologised and thought about what they were doing? Would they have invaded my personal space, rubbished my complaint, claimed it was a joke (or worse, a compliment) and started behaving in a physically threatening manner? If they're using words and attitude to assert their dominance over women in the street that they don't know, what might they do to assert their dominance over a woman in the street who rejects their status quo? It's enough that I think they might have done that, no matter how slim the possibility. And just think; if I had challenged them and they had become threatening and they had assaulted me, physically or sexually, how many people would say that I had some part of the blame because I didn't just ignore them?
Today has been quite notable in that the higher powers of SPT seem to hate me with the firey passion of 10,000 suns.
I pelted down the road this morning to get the 8.30am bus, to get the 9.20 train, to get to the office for about 10.30. Turns out, there is no 8.30am bus. There is an 8.15 one, and a 9.30 one, according to the timetable at the stop. And one at 9.00, which I found out about when I got back home, without enough time to turn round and go back. So I got the bus at 9.30 and decided that once I got to the railway station, I'd ring the office to let them know how late I was going to be. To find that the train I was planning on getting was cancelled, and the next service was running about 10 minutes late. I finally made it to the office at about midday.
And it doesn't quite end there, oh no.
I got back to Central, feeling my blood sugar plummeting, so grabbed a packet of wine gums, then got on the train, which was the next to go. I checked the departures board and the screen thing at platform 10, they both said East Kilbride. Once on the train, though, it appeared to be for Kilmarnock. And announcement kind of backed that one up too. I did wonder if it was my mistake; the dropping blood sugar was kind of distracting me, so I might have gotten a little confused. The guy who also got off the train though, for the same reason? I'm not sure he needed a wine gum. One thing that made me smile though, the song that had shuffled on to the Walkman was Train by Goldfrapp.
I pelted down the road this morning to get the 8.30am bus, to get the 9.20 train, to get to the office for about 10.30. Turns out, there is no 8.30am bus. There is an 8.15 one, and a 9.30 one, according to the timetable at the stop. And one at 9.00, which I found out about when I got back home, without enough time to turn round and go back. So I got the bus at 9.30 and decided that once I got to the railway station, I'd ring the office to let them know how late I was going to be. To find that the train I was planning on getting was cancelled, and the next service was running about 10 minutes late. I finally made it to the office at about midday.
And it doesn't quite end there, oh no.
I got back to Central, feeling my blood sugar plummeting, so grabbed a packet of wine gums, then got on the train, which was the next to go. I checked the departures board and the screen thing at platform 10, they both said East Kilbride. Once on the train, though, it appeared to be for Kilmarnock. And announcement kind of backed that one up too. I did wonder if it was my mistake; the dropping blood sugar was kind of distracting me, so I might have gotten a little confused. The guy who also got off the train though, for the same reason? I'm not sure he needed a wine gum. One thing that made me smile though, the song that had shuffled on to the Walkman was Train by Goldfrapp.
The rules are simple. Answer each question in three words. No more, no less.
01. Where is your cell phone? Atop the computer.
02. Boyfriend/girlfriend? Only in dreams.
03. Hair? Needing some dye.
04. Your mother? Drives me mad.
05. Your father? Makes good coffee.
06. Your favorite item(s)? Walkman... (oh dear, I'm not materialistic enough to think of 2 more, sorry)
07. Your dream last night? Could've been anything.
08. Your favorite drink? Hot, fresh coffee.
09. Your dream guy/girl? William Patrick Corgan.
10. The room you are in? Is closing in.
11. Your fear? Eight legged things.
12. What do you want to be in 10 years? Happy, not dead.
13. Who did you hang out with last night? Shiny new friends.
14. What are you not? Traditional, entirely sane.
15. Are you in love? No. Yes. No.
16. One of your wish list items? Pumpkins' new E.P.
17. What time is it? Late, gone 11.
18. The last thing you did? Zoma dinged 41.
19. What are you wearing? Falling-off jeans.
20. Your favorite book? Never just one.
21. The last thing you ate? Much garlic bagguette.
22. Your life? Compared to what?
23. Your mood? Better than earlier.
24. Your friends? Absolutely, unbelievably incredible.
25. What are you thinking about right now? Indigestion, insomnia, playlists.
26. Your car? Don't have one.
27. What are you doing at this moment? Updating the Phavourites.
28. Your summer? So far away...
29. Your relationship status? Dead on arrival.
30. What is on your TV screen? Layer of dust.
31. When is the last time you laughed? Lesley's pint trick.
32. Last time you cried? Through acousitc Perfect.
33. School? What of it?
01. Where is your cell phone? Atop the computer.
02. Boyfriend/girlfriend? Only in dreams.
03. Hair? Needing some dye.
04. Your mother? Drives me mad.
05. Your father? Makes good coffee.
06. Your favorite item(s)? Walkman... (oh dear, I'm not materialistic enough to think of 2 more, sorry)
07. Your dream last night? Could've been anything.
08. Your favorite drink? Hot, fresh coffee.
09. Your dream guy/girl? William Patrick Corgan.
10. The room you are in? Is closing in.
11. Your fear? Eight legged things.
12. What do you want to be in 10 years? Happy, not dead.
13. Who did you hang out with last night? Shiny new friends.
14. What are you not? Traditional, entirely sane.
15. Are you in love? No. Yes. No.
16. One of your wish list items? Pumpkins' new E.P.
17. What time is it? Late, gone 11.
18. The last thing you did? Zoma dinged 41.
19. What are you wearing? Falling-off jeans.
20. Your favorite book? Never just one.
21. The last thing you ate? Much garlic bagguette.
22. Your life? Compared to what?
23. Your mood? Better than earlier.
24. Your friends? Absolutely, unbelievably incredible.
25. What are you thinking about right now? Indigestion, insomnia, playlists.
26. Your car? Don't have one.
27. What are you doing at this moment? Updating the Phavourites.
28. Your summer? So far away...
29. Your relationship status? Dead on arrival.
30. What is on your TV screen? Layer of dust.
31. When is the last time you laughed? Lesley's pint trick.
32. Last time you cried? Through acousitc Perfect.
33. School? What of it?
Being a southpaw, I'm always interested in reading about things like this, dredged from the BBC's archives. I'm somewhat amused to learn that carrying this gene may also increase my risk of psychotic mental illness. Somehow, it figures, though it does also kind of mean that if I do get that kind of ill, I haven't much hope as it's genetic.
Anyways. Evidence that this was written by a right-handed journalist:
"However, being left-handed has also been linked to a greater risk of some diseases, and to having an accident." [emphasis mine]
The increased risk of accidents isn't necessarily a biological thing; it's that 90% of the population is right-handed so pretty much everything is set up for them. To illustrate; I recall reading a point made by a left-handed gun enthusiast. Automatic weapons will eject the spent casing out of the right side of the gun. Fine if you're holding it in your right hand; in your left, you'll get a stream of cases in your face.
Being the lover of etymology that I am, on occassion, I'm also somewhat amused to discover that 'leftness' is, amongst other things, weak, useless, awkward, tactless, and of course sinister. Do excuse me while I titter quietly behind my (left) hand.
Anyways. Evidence that this was written by a right-handed journalist:
"However, being left-handed has also been linked to a greater risk of some diseases, and to having an accident." [emphasis mine]
The increased risk of accidents isn't necessarily a biological thing; it's that 90% of the population is right-handed so pretty much everything is set up for them. To illustrate; I recall reading a point made by a left-handed gun enthusiast. Automatic weapons will eject the spent casing out of the right side of the gun. Fine if you're holding it in your right hand; in your left, you'll get a stream of cases in your face.
Being the lover of etymology that I am, on occassion, I'm also somewhat amused to discover that 'leftness' is, amongst other things, weak, useless, awkward, tactless, and of course sinister. Do excuse me while I titter quietly behind my (left) hand.
A confession.
The ex who I'm finding it hard to get over? I've been reading his blog. Pretty much every day since before we got together. Sometimes, I've thought that I'm being silly and have made myself not read it, with a handy line of codey stuff to block the page loading. Curiosity has always gotten the better of me though, and I've taken it out again. I don't know what I'm looking for there, but I doubt I'd ever find it. It also gives my imagination impetus to create things that might not have happened, like him meeting someone else. His only reference to me on his blog was one very oblique reference to something that we hadn't done; he's not the kind of person who (like me) will messily smear their emotional insides all over the interwebs for everyone to see. The thought of that makes me want to cry, and hate myself even more, because it's utterly pathetic. It's a vain attempt at trying to keep him in my life, which is silly because he's not. He's in my past, that's it. Reading his blog just serves to illustrate the point that he's doing just fine without me in his life, it's never going to make me feel any better about the situation, and it's certainly not ever going to help me to let go and move on.
It could be argued that it's a public blog, that anyone can read. Which it is, but I'm not going to provide a link. But when you know the author in real life, and have seen them with no clothes on, it's just not the same, is it?
So. That command is back in the configuration, and this time it's staying there.
The ex who I'm finding it hard to get over? I've been reading his blog. Pretty much every day since before we got together. Sometimes, I've thought that I'm being silly and have made myself not read it, with a handy line of codey stuff to block the page loading. Curiosity has always gotten the better of me though, and I've taken it out again. I don't know what I'm looking for there, but I doubt I'd ever find it. It also gives my imagination impetus to create things that might not have happened, like him meeting someone else. His only reference to me on his blog was one very oblique reference to something that we hadn't done; he's not the kind of person who (like me) will messily smear their emotional insides all over the interwebs for everyone to see. The thought of that makes me want to cry, and hate myself even more, because it's utterly pathetic. It's a vain attempt at trying to keep him in my life, which is silly because he's not. He's in my past, that's it. Reading his blog just serves to illustrate the point that he's doing just fine without me in his life, it's never going to make me feel any better about the situation, and it's certainly not ever going to help me to let go and move on.
It could be argued that it's a public blog, that anyone can read. Which it is, but I'm not going to provide a link. But when you know the author in real life, and have seen them with no clothes on, it's just not the same, is it?
So. That command is back in the configuration, and this time it's staying there.
I've had a great day. Ignore the petualant whining of earlier (technically yesterday). Mum took me to Ichiban for lunch, which is now my new favourite place to eat, evarrrr, and I had a great evening at the pub. Some folks couldn't make it, circumstances being what they are, but I had a great time and Lesley (not Lesley Anne) made me laugh myself silly by carrying her pint back from the bar down her t-shirt. Honestly; she put down the 3 drinks she was carryng, straightened, reached down the neck of her top and pulled out an immaculate, unspilt pint. My kinda gal, without a doubt...
I may yet fall asleep with my lenses in, which I really shouldn't do, but I am a little bit drunk. Oh, and suffering from slight heartburn, which I'm sure you needed to know.
I may yet fall asleep with my lenses in, which I really shouldn't do, but I am a little bit drunk. Oh, and suffering from slight heartburn, which I'm sure you needed to know.
If I'd been able, I'd've put in a clip from YouTube or a widget from imeem with Blissed and Gone, but it's too rare a track, apparently, so have the lyrics and I'll hum it.
Birthdays are a bit anti-climatic, aren't they? OK, so it's only just gone 9am, but I don't really feel any different from yesterday, or the day before. I wasn't expecting to; I've done this 29 times now and never had any major event occur on waking (except possibly a hangover) but it is still a little disappointing to wake up and find that the world is just getting on with it. Just goes to show I'm nowhere near so important as I am in my head.
I've already had some nice gifts (especially a delicious smelling box that came through the mail; exactly the kind of kisses I really wanted!) but I'm not as excited by them as I should be.
And now I sound like an ungrateful brat. Twelve years ago, I wasn't so bad.
Anyways. Today Mum and I are going to Partick, as I saw a vintage clothes shop there that I'm bordering on desperate to have a rummage through, and then Alan will be down about 5pm, and then drink will be taken. It's shaping up to be a good day, but part of me is petulantly hoping for fireworks. Bah. I'll go watch the video for Cochise.
*oh yes, there is a Pumkins lyric for everything.
Birthdays are a bit anti-climatic, aren't they? OK, so it's only just gone 9am, but I don't really feel any different from yesterday, or the day before. I wasn't expecting to; I've done this 29 times now and never had any major event occur on waking (except possibly a hangover) but it is still a little disappointing to wake up and find that the world is just getting on with it. Just goes to show I'm nowhere near so important as I am in my head.
I've already had some nice gifts (especially a delicious smelling box that came through the mail; exactly the kind of kisses I really wanted!) but I'm not as excited by them as I should be.
And now I sound like an ungrateful brat. Twelve years ago, I wasn't so bad.
Anyways. Today Mum and I are going to Partick, as I saw a vintage clothes shop there that I'm bordering on desperate to have a rummage through, and then Alan will be down about 5pm, and then drink will be taken. It's shaping up to be a good day, but part of me is petulantly hoping for fireworks. Bah. I'll go watch the video for Cochise.
*oh yes, there is a Pumkins lyric for everything.
Yeah, yeah, it's Valentine's Day. There's no avoiding it, but I refuse to participate, other than to be mildly disparaging about the whole sordid affair. I am not going near the stupid 'seasonal' quests in Warcraft, mostly for that reason, but also, the final reward is a goblin in a nappy that flies after you and just gets in the way. I'll save my efforts for Children's Week, and get another Mr. Wiggles, thank you.
My single friends, and indeed all my friends: I love you every single day of the year, I appreciate you all more than I'll likely ever tell you, and I'm very lucky to have you in my life, so, thanks.
I'm so disinterested in engaging with the whole damned sham that you can read this piece that Melissa at Shakesville wrote instead. I pretty much agree with every word. And, for the record, I'd much rather have a back-rub than any other gift being hawked by shops just now.
My single friends, and indeed all my friends: I love you every single day of the year, I appreciate you all more than I'll likely ever tell you, and I'm very lucky to have you in my life, so, thanks.
I'm so disinterested in engaging with the whole damned sham that you can read this piece that Melissa at Shakesville wrote instead. I pretty much agree with every word. And, for the record, I'd much rather have a back-rub than any other gift being hawked by shops just now.
There's a colouring book on Amazon that sounds interesting, to say the least. The Cunt Colouring Book, by Tee Corrine. Whoever made the page for Amazon appears to not be able to get the difference between the letter T and the letter D, as it's credited to an author called Dee Corrine. Now. I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that the book was created as a celebration of the external female genitalia (which strictly speaking, is not the vagina) and possibly as an aid for women to get more familiar with their bodies, and for men too, in a light-hearted way. To help get across that vulvas and labia are all different, that they're there, and not a 100% sexual thing, because who is sexual 100% of the time? The depiction of vulvas that most people see are either couched in biological terms (sex education, anatomy classes) or in pornography. Neither are exactly presenting the female body in a realistic, complete way. So, that's what I think the book is aiming for. Women have cunts, it's not something that's shameful or weak in any way. I'm not sure about appropriating it as the source of all power, because that's really just taking penis power and pasting over the appropriate word; sex is important, but it's not the only thing that makes us. Yes, it made you, you, you, me, you, you, you and everybody else, but I don't mean in the physical sense. Sex does not make me interested in books and politics, shoes and music. I don't like glitter because of sex.
Looking at the comments of people who've purchased the book, though, it seems that I'm the only person who thinks that way. "Templates for the erotic artist"? But the cunt is not always an erotic thing. The body, male or female, is not always an erotic thing. Maybe my interpretation's a bit off, but surely an 'erotic' artist, if they're depicting the body, should have an idea of what the cunt looks like, instead of having to crib from a colouring book?
"I was gutted to find that many of the genitalia on offer were closed, reserved affairs, prompting me to colour in with mostly pink felt-tips. Had there been soused orifices with splaying lips and swollen clitorii, then I would have been able to use all the beautiful colours of the rainbow: Deep reds and veiny purples. Even blushing cerise. No. There are none. Foolishly I tried a few strokes of my Caribbean Green crayola for flair and now I have a useless book full of fetid zombiginas. Disappointing."
This one really, really irritates me. As I said, I think the point of this book is to get away from the notion that the cunt is shameful, strange, hidden, or should be what is displayed in pornography. And what the hell kind of rainbows does this guy see? Oh yes, it was a man who wrote that. The aroused state of female genitals may well be a thing of visual beauty to him, which he appears to be trying to imply, but women aren't always aroused. Are they not beautiful then? He appears to forget that, ok, this is a book of vulvas and labia and not much else of women, but in the real world, this body parts are attached to a living, thinking human being.
And the comment about it not having pictures of certain men who are objectionable? Yeah, let's liken them to female genitals, because, yunno, it's a bad thing.
Looking at the comments of people who've purchased the book, though, it seems that I'm the only person who thinks that way. "Templates for the erotic artist"? But the cunt is not always an erotic thing. The body, male or female, is not always an erotic thing. Maybe my interpretation's a bit off, but surely an 'erotic' artist, if they're depicting the body, should have an idea of what the cunt looks like, instead of having to crib from a colouring book?
"I was gutted to find that many of the genitalia on offer were closed, reserved affairs, prompting me to colour in with mostly pink felt-tips. Had there been soused orifices with splaying lips and swollen clitorii, then I would have been able to use all the beautiful colours of the rainbow: Deep reds and veiny purples. Even blushing cerise. No. There are none. Foolishly I tried a few strokes of my Caribbean Green crayola for flair and now I have a useless book full of fetid zombiginas. Disappointing."
This one really, really irritates me. As I said, I think the point of this book is to get away from the notion that the cunt is shameful, strange, hidden, or should be what is displayed in pornography. And what the hell kind of rainbows does this guy see? Oh yes, it was a man who wrote that. The aroused state of female genitals may well be a thing of visual beauty to him, which he appears to be trying to imply, but women aren't always aroused. Are they not beautiful then? He appears to forget that, ok, this is a book of vulvas and labia and not much else of women, but in the real world, this body parts are attached to a living, thinking human being.
And the comment about it not having pictures of certain men who are objectionable? Yeah, let's liken them to female genitals, because, yunno, it's a bad thing.
Last night's performance was a bit more like this...
... except that Billy remember the words.
The concert was fantastic, super-awesome and just about perfect. They opened with Porcelina Of The Vast Oceans, one of the first songs I fell in love with from Mellon Collie, and from there... They also played (but not in this order) Behold! The Nightmare, Cash Car Star, Mayonaise, Perfect, 1979, Tarantula, The Rose March, Drown, Daydream, That's The Way (My Love Is), My Blue Heaven, Bring The Light, (Come On) Let's Go!, The Everlasting Gaze, Wound, Try, Try, Try, Today, Bullet With Butterfly Wings, Tonight, Tonight, Lily (My One And Only), Ava Adore and the encore was a song I can't remember then Cherub Rock.
I can't think of the words to explain just how wonderful the whole thing was, apart from during 1979 when I found myself standing at a 45 degree angle to the ground, and not in a good way, which pissed me off becasue I really fucking love 1979, but couldn't concentrate on the song because a small blonde girl was attempting to occupy the space currently taken by my left kidney. The songs that really stand out in my memory are Mayonaise and Perfect. Jimmy came round infront of the drum riser with a tambourine and Billy played Perfect acoustic. I have to admit to some facial leakage as I was singing along to that, it was oddly cathartic. Mayonaise is one of my most favourite songs, anyway, and it was just the most fantastic rendition of it. They played for about 2½ hours, and I missed my last train home. Had to wait for Mum to come get me, and it was really, really cold last night. But, it was such a good concert, I wouldn't have much minded losing a toe or two.
Steph, the Facebook friend, is just lovely. As any decent Pumpkins fan should be, but not all of them are. Did I mention, we were right at the front, at the barrier? I think Steph probably has some lovely bruising today, and my legs are a bit iffy about working properly, but it was so totally, utterly worth it. I've been smiling vaguely at almost everyone today. I am, however, knackered; I felt myself starting to drift off on the train home this afternoon. Anyway. I'm on enough of a natural high that I really couldn't care about being single tomorrow, when the rest of the world appears not to be, and East Kilbride being full of adorable little children. I don't need love, I don't need babies, I have rock music!
I can't think of the words to explain just how wonderful the whole thing was, apart from during 1979 when I found myself standing at a 45 degree angle to the ground, and not in a good way, which pissed me off becasue I really fucking love 1979, but couldn't concentrate on the song because a small blonde girl was attempting to occupy the space currently taken by my left kidney. The songs that really stand out in my memory are Mayonaise and Perfect. Jimmy came round infront of the drum riser with a tambourine and Billy played Perfect acoustic. I have to admit to some facial leakage as I was singing along to that, it was oddly cathartic. Mayonaise is one of my most favourite songs, anyway, and it was just the most fantastic rendition of it. They played for about 2½ hours, and I missed my last train home. Had to wait for Mum to come get me, and it was really, really cold last night. But, it was such a good concert, I wouldn't have much minded losing a toe or two.
Steph, the Facebook friend, is just lovely. As any decent Pumpkins fan should be, but not all of them are. Did I mention, we were right at the front, at the barrier? I think Steph probably has some lovely bruising today, and my legs are a bit iffy about working properly, but it was so totally, utterly worth it. I've been smiling vaguely at almost everyone today. I am, however, knackered; I felt myself starting to drift off on the train home this afternoon. Anyway. I'm on enough of a natural high that I really couldn't care about being single tomorrow, when the rest of the world appears not to be, and East Kilbride being full of adorable little children. I don't need love, I don't need babies, I have rock music!
I'm going to see the Pumpkins! Later today! It'll be amazing, and hopefully I'll have woken up. In the meantimes, why does Valentines automatically equate to sex? Don't people realise that red lingerie is a bit tacky? And what are men supposed to do for their partners?
So very, very tired.
I'd be witty and enlightening, but I really am so close to sleeping I have a headache from being awake. Instead; here's a list of the CDs I bought at Missing on my way home (in a convoluted way) from training.
I'd be witty and enlightening, but I really am so close to sleeping I have a headache from being awake. Instead; here's a list of the CDs I bought at Missing on my way home (in a convoluted way) from training.
- Bustin' + Dronin' - Blur. It's a remix/live 2 disc set. I've already heard most of CD2, their performance at Peel Acres, because some of the tracks were released as B-sides to the singles taken from the album Blur.
- Milk & Kisses - Cocteau Twins. I'm totally enamoured of Cocteau Twins. Ethereal is a good word for their music. Beautiful is another.
- Moon Safari - Air. I used to have a copy of this, but it's vanished into the ether. Sexy Boy is very good, but I especially love Kelly Watch The Stars.
- Talkie Walkie - Air. Only heard one track off this album (Surfing On A Rocket, which unfortunately reminds me of fret-wanker Joe Satriani. The title, I mean, not the song.) but it's supposed to be good. I'm pretty sure I'll like it.
- I Com - Miss Kittin. There's a Miss Kittin and The Hacker track on the Party Monster soundtrack that I quite like, she's worked with Felix da Housecat, and she's female (evidently) in a male-dominated field. What's not to like?
- Everybody Hertz - Air. Hell, in for a penny and all. It's remixes by other acts. 10 of them.
Turns out it really is by Liz Phair. My bad.
One of my random downloads is a song called Extraordinary, allegedly by Liz Phair. Having listened to it, it doesn't sound much like her, but there you go. It's a very good song, but that's not why I'm blogging about it. It's the lyrics. Don't get me wrong, I like them too, but if one were to say these things in real life, no matter how true they are, you would just come off as plain crazy. That's not the only song like that, I'm just using it as an example. Most songs about love and longing have that quality. Sure, they sound terribly romantic, but the person they're for quite probably thinks the author's to be avoided at all costs.
Maybe I'm just projecting.
Maybe I'm just projecting.
Quite often, in the course of life recently, I'll mention to strangers that I work with Rape Crisis. Not random strangers, you understand, but people like those in the Department for Work and Pensions. I've noticed that men often respond with the almost-kneejerk response of "men get raped too". No, I've been through the meaning of words before; no-one 'gets' raped. That implies an active role in creating the situation. I'll get a new pair of shoes, I'll get a new job, I'll get a sore head if I drink too much whisky. I did not, however, get myself raped, I did not get myself beaten. One person chose to do those things, and it sure as hell wasn't me.
But, I digress.
Men are raped too. I read something about it recently; according to police figures (so I think just England and Wales) something like 3% of reported rapes are from men. It, too, is massively under-reported. Going on instinct alone, I'd guess that it's possibly even more under-reported than 'regular' rape. Women are considered to report at a rate of 1 in 5, men probably moreso, because of the macho society that exists. There's the whole gay issue (even though it's still not about sex) and then there's the whole weakness thing. To admit having been raped, I am guessing, will feminize the man, if not in his own perception, then almost certainly in that of others. Have you noticed that all the famous gay men (with the exception of Sir Ian McKellan, off the top of my head) tend to be really campy, and, well... more 'feminine'? I mean that they tend to have qualities that are considered to be feminine; bitchiness, vanity (or at least, appearance aware), gossiping, so on.
I'm tangenting again.
So. Men are raped, too. Though it's with some certainty that I say that the numbers are still far less than women who are raped. (Funny isn't it, how the focus always, always, always shifts to the men? The masses of poor, innocent men who are falsely accused (2%), the masses of men who are raped and assaulted (3%) conveniently overlooking the 98% of women who aren't lying and the 97% of reports that made by women)
Had this case involved a man raping a woman, I doubt it would've been reported nationally at all. If the accused didn't work for the BBC, it might have garnered less of their attention. Sadly, men get the same justice as women, it appears. Not the kind of equality I'm happy with.
But, I digress.
Men are raped too. I read something about it recently; according to police figures (so I think just England and Wales) something like 3% of reported rapes are from men. It, too, is massively under-reported. Going on instinct alone, I'd guess that it's possibly even more under-reported than 'regular' rape. Women are considered to report at a rate of 1 in 5, men probably moreso, because of the macho society that exists. There's the whole gay issue (even though it's still not about sex) and then there's the whole weakness thing. To admit having been raped, I am guessing, will feminize the man, if not in his own perception, then almost certainly in that of others. Have you noticed that all the famous gay men (with the exception of Sir Ian McKellan, off the top of my head) tend to be really campy, and, well... more 'feminine'? I mean that they tend to have qualities that are considered to be feminine; bitchiness, vanity (or at least, appearance aware), gossiping, so on.
I'm tangenting again.
So. Men are raped, too. Though it's with some certainty that I say that the numbers are still far less than women who are raped. (Funny isn't it, how the focus always, always, always shifts to the men? The masses of poor, innocent men who are falsely accused (2%), the masses of men who are raped and assaulted (3%) conveniently overlooking the 98% of women who aren't lying and the 97% of reports that made by women)
Had this case involved a man raping a woman, I doubt it would've been reported nationally at all. If the accused didn't work for the BBC, it might have garnered less of their attention. Sadly, men get the same justice as women, it appears. Not the kind of equality I'm happy with.
So. I was just about managing to keep a lid on it, then Mum appeared with a cup of tea. "Smashing Pumpkins next week!" I kind of mumbled some lame reply, and Mum asked if I was still going. I said I didn't know; I don't have anyone to go with. "After I bought the ticket?"
Never mind that it's my fucking birthday present, never mind that it's my favourite band, never mind that it means I have no friends.
£30 of her money, wasted. That's the important bit.
Never mind that it's my fucking birthday present, never mind that it's my favourite band, never mind that it means I have no friends.
£30 of her money, wasted. That's the important bit.
Remember how I said, awhile back, that I had a ticket for the Smashing Pumpkins for my birthday? And how, if I couldn't find anyone to go with, I couldn't go? Then, that I'd gotten hold of Chris and he'd said he would? I haven't heard from him since then.
It looks like I'm not going after all. I don't know anyone who like the Pumpkins enough to go see them, and I don't know anyone in this area well enough to go to a gig with.
So, forgive me if I'm not my usual sparkling self for a while. The only sparkling will be when the light catches the tears and the snot on my face on Tuesday.
It looks like I'm not going after all. I don't know anyone who like the Pumpkins enough to go see them, and I don't know anyone in this area well enough to go to a gig with.
So, forgive me if I'm not my usual sparkling self for a while. The only sparkling will be when the light catches the tears and the snot on my face on Tuesday.
And who am I to deny peer group pressure?
On Eonar:
Czarina - Dwarf Warrior, currently level 62. My 'main' in that I've played her longest and she's highest.
Ramalama - Gnome Warlock, level 21.
Linoleum - Night Elf Druid, level 20-ish. Turns out I've written down the wrong thing. I think she's about 21. Anyway, she certainly not a level 36 Hunter.
Bompa - Dwarf Hunter, level 36. Pet is a bear named Lomp. There's been a few Lomps.
Decepta - Gnome Mage, level 21. Also, my one engineer. I like some of the silly-sounding things she can make.
Harmonio - Dwarf Rogue, level 31.
Pastichio - Dwarf Priest, level 20.
Slinkeepie - Dwarf Paladin, level 16. My 'bank' toon, except that I found myself playing her which put a crimp in the staying-near-the-bank-and-the-Auction-House plan.
Dizzle - Dranaei Shaman, level 14.
Zoma - Blood Elf Rogue, level 23. Also Guild Master for Joy Division.
Czarina was GM for New Order (see what I done there? Huh? Huh??) but when I couldn't play, I made someone else GM, who made someone else GM and he didn't get that I couldn't just come back to the game because I couldn't find a graphics card I could afford, so he disbanded the guild. I'm not best pleased, that was 10g for the charter and however much again for the tabard design, which I was quitely quite proud of. Purple background, with 'silver' (ok, white; the grey didn't show up so well) lightning bolts on it. The Joy Division tabard is the same design, but red on a black background.
On Khadgar:
Zoma - Dwarf Rogue, level 17. I don't know how I got Harmonio to level 31 as I'm finding it such a slog to get Zoma levelled any.
Minaloy - Human Priest, level 8. Funnily enough, I'm starting to get a little bored of the dwarf/gnome starting areas, so fancied a change.
Slinkeepie - Blood Elf Rogue, level 19.
Blusher - Undead Rogue, level 8. She has no eyes, just empty sockets. And a nifty somersault thing when she does her finishing move. She's a walking cliché, which I've alluded to with her name.
So. Add them to your friends lists, when you're on those servers. Especially Alliance on Eonar, I kinda want to get New Order back up and running, so need another 9 folks for that...
My characters on World of Warcraft
On Eonar:
Czarina - Dwarf Warrior, currently level 62. My 'main' in that I've played her longest and she's highest.
Ramalama - Gnome Warlock, level 21.
Linoleum - Night Elf Druid, level 20-ish. Turns out I've written down the wrong thing. I think she's about 21. Anyway, she certainly not a level 36 Hunter.
Bompa - Dwarf Hunter, level 36. Pet is a bear named Lomp. There's been a few Lomps.
Decepta - Gnome Mage, level 21. Also, my one engineer. I like some of the silly-sounding things she can make.
Harmonio - Dwarf Rogue, level 31.
Pastichio - Dwarf Priest, level 20.
Slinkeepie - Dwarf Paladin, level 16. My 'bank' toon, except that I found myself playing her which put a crimp in the staying-near-the-bank-and-the-Auction-House plan.
Dizzle - Dranaei Shaman, level 14.
Zoma - Blood Elf Rogue, level 23. Also Guild Master for Joy Division.
Czarina was GM for New Order (see what I done there? Huh? Huh??) but when I couldn't play, I made someone else GM, who made someone else GM and he didn't get that I couldn't just come back to the game because I couldn't find a graphics card I could afford, so he disbanded the guild. I'm not best pleased, that was 10g for the charter and however much again for the tabard design, which I was quitely quite proud of. Purple background, with 'silver' (ok, white; the grey didn't show up so well) lightning bolts on it. The Joy Division tabard is the same design, but red on a black background.
On Khadgar:
Zoma - Dwarf Rogue, level 17. I don't know how I got Harmonio to level 31 as I'm finding it such a slog to get Zoma levelled any.
Minaloy - Human Priest, level 8. Funnily enough, I'm starting to get a little bored of the dwarf/gnome starting areas, so fancied a change.
Slinkeepie - Blood Elf Rogue, level 19.
Blusher - Undead Rogue, level 8. She has no eyes, just empty sockets. And a nifty somersault thing when she does her finishing move. She's a walking cliché, which I've alluded to with her name.
So. Add them to your friends lists, when you're on those servers. Especially Alliance on Eonar, I kinda want to get New Order back up and running, so need another 9 folks for that...
So, I have a new job. I'm going to be a support worker for a charitable company who provide support for marginalised people, in their own homes. If that makes any sense. It'll likely be people with learning disabilities and the elderly, but the company provide assistance to other 'groups', so we'll see where I go with this, in time.
To celebrate my good fortune, I have a meme for you, swiped from a journal I occasionally read. 5 questions; please answer in Comments and feel free to pose your own. As I'm feeling musically minded, I draw my inspiration from SonicStage...
To celebrate my good fortune, I have a meme for you, swiped from a journal I occasionally read. 5 questions; please answer in Comments and feel free to pose your own. As I'm feeling musically minded, I draw my inspiration from SonicStage...
- Is bigger better? (Chicks On Speed)
- What you waiting for? (Gwen Stefani)
- Who poisoned the food? (Dawn of The Replicants)
- Why am I so tired? (Smashing Pumpkins)
- In these shoes? (Kirsty MacColl)
Listening to Women's Hour on Radio 4; a debate about abortion (in Northern Ireland, I think). A provider described the case of a woman who was "very violently" raped. The pre-born rights politician expressed sympathy for women "who find themselves in those situations".
Er, no.
You find yourself in situations you got yourself into, like waking up with the imprint of the loo seat on your head or stuck in a changing room half-in and half-out of an item of clothing or, more seriously, facing eviction if you've spent the rent money on sweets.
The belittling of the situation in that manner is further disempowerment for these women. He did pay lip service to the idea that circumstances can play a part and that wasn't for him to decide, as a politician, but still basically said that all pregnancies should go ahead, unless it will kill the mother. Oh, and he trotted out the well-worn "sanctity of human life". Which, really, is a big steaming pile of shit from these people, because it instantly classifies women as less than human.
Er, no.
You find yourself in situations you got yourself into, like waking up with the imprint of the loo seat on your head or stuck in a changing room half-in and half-out of an item of clothing or, more seriously, facing eviction if you've spent the rent money on sweets.
The belittling of the situation in that manner is further disempowerment for these women. He did pay lip service to the idea that circumstances can play a part and that wasn't for him to decide, as a politician, but still basically said that all pregnancies should go ahead, unless it will kill the mother. Oh, and he trotted out the well-worn "sanctity of human life". Which, really, is a big steaming pile of shit from these people, because it instantly classifies women as less than human.
It was something of a night of the long knives last night. (no, not literally, I managed to restrain that impulse) I nearly decided to cancel any plans (such as they are) for my birthday; one good thing about the scattershot approach to inviting, and not asking people to confirm one way or another, is that I don't know who, if indeed anyone, will turn up and even more than caring about whether I have a shitty time or not, I don't want to let anyone down. I'm sure it's a good thing, somehow.
And, no, that wasn't the only thing that kept me awake. I'm finally letting go. I realise now that there's absolutely no circumstance under which he'll even so much as talk to me, let alone anything else, and I only have myself to blame for that. I realised recently that I've done something quite similar before, some months before meeting Ben. And I'm reminding myself of Iain, with his "I don't think we should have broken up, because I didn't want to" (and that really is a verbatim quote, allowing for 5+ years of memory degradation) And I remember what I thought of him when he said that, and realise how I must appear to him. I could bleat on about how I can't remember why we broke up (when I get like that, I can't remember much of anything) and how much I wish we hadn't, but if wishes were horses, I'd be stuck to the ceiling.
Oh, it hurts. More than breaking up with Ben, because I didn't much like him by the end. But holding on to my feelings isn't going to make the blindest bit of difference, because he just doesn't feel even remotely similarly about me. I doubt he even thinks about me much anymore. I'd say 'maybe when I email', but I doubt he even reads them, or indeed, knows that they're there. It's very difficult to reconcile with the memories I do have, of him telling me that he thought we'd be together for a very long time (I never did ask what qualifies as 'very long' though) or talking about the meeting of parents, or not wanting to hang up, even though we had nothing to say, or wanting to take me to work and keep me under the desk (that's not coming over too well, that one, but it was lovely at the time), or apparently being the only person he could sleep right next to, all night, and neither of us waking with dead arms as I recall. Because, even if he felt like that at the time, he certainly doesn't now. I just have to accept that.
It's a work in progress.
And, no, that wasn't the only thing that kept me awake. I'm finally letting go. I realise now that there's absolutely no circumstance under which he'll even so much as talk to me, let alone anything else, and I only have myself to blame for that. I realised recently that I've done something quite similar before, some months before meeting Ben. And I'm reminding myself of Iain, with his "I don't think we should have broken up, because I didn't want to" (and that really is a verbatim quote, allowing for 5+ years of memory degradation) And I remember what I thought of him when he said that, and realise how I must appear to him. I could bleat on about how I can't remember why we broke up (when I get like that, I can't remember much of anything) and how much I wish we hadn't, but if wishes were horses, I'd be stuck to the ceiling.
Oh, it hurts. More than breaking up with Ben, because I didn't much like him by the end. But holding on to my feelings isn't going to make the blindest bit of difference, because he just doesn't feel even remotely similarly about me. I doubt he even thinks about me much anymore. I'd say 'maybe when I email', but I doubt he even reads them, or indeed, knows that they're there. It's very difficult to reconcile with the memories I do have, of him telling me that he thought we'd be together for a very long time (I never did ask what qualifies as 'very long' though) or talking about the meeting of parents, or not wanting to hang up, even though we had nothing to say, or wanting to take me to work and keep me under the desk (that's not coming over too well, that one, but it was lovely at the time), or apparently being the only person he could sleep right next to, all night, and neither of us waking with dead arms as I recall. Because, even if he felt like that at the time, he certainly doesn't now. I just have to accept that.
It's a work in progress.
You know what I would really like one year? Someone to arrange a surprise birthday party. For me. I really don't enjoy trying to arrange anything myself; a couple of people have come back already to say that they have other plans and now I have an image of it being a total wash-out because no-one really likes me that much, so it'll be me, my brother and 2 other people. Aren't birthdays supposed to be fun? I'll be inviting the people from school who are on Facebook next... Not that that would be a good idea; they probably like me about as much as I like them, so it's just more rejection. I'm seriously considering just cancelling the whole shebang and staying home in my pyjamas with a book and some Jack instead.
At 5am this morning, I was taking a spiral-bound notebook apart and putting it back together again. The pages were in it upside-down, and I just couldn't bear it. I tried just swapping the front and back covers first, but that didn't work with the binding. I couldn't have just left it; I'd never have slept, and it would've just bugged me forever.
Did I mention that I have a chronic perfectionism streak? It can be hard to live up to, but thankfully, I rarely see 5am.
Did I mention that I have a chronic perfectionism streak? It can be hard to live up to, but thankfully, I rarely see 5am.
I could go on about WoW, seeing as that's pretty much all I've done today, but I won't bother. It's very good for distracting yourself from things you'd otherwise think about endlessly. It's also very good for eating up the hours.
But I've still been thinking about stuff. The Walkman randomly playing I'll Do Ya by Whale, what felt like every 20 minutes, didn't help. Nor did Venus As A Boy by Björk.
Dammit, I still miss him.
But I've still been thinking about stuff. The Walkman randomly playing I'll Do Ya by Whale, what felt like every 20 minutes, didn't help. Nor did Venus As A Boy by Björk.
Dammit, I still miss him.
In the mornings, in an attempt to keep myself in a 'normal' routine, my alarm clock / radio goes on at 8am. Usually, I doze through it until about 8.45 or so, which given that I'm hearing the Today programme in Radio 4, means I've had some very unusual (and sometimes quite political) dreams. Today, while waiting for my coffee to be lees-than-scalding (my fingerprints'll grow back within the week), I was listening to Saturday Live. It's sometimes interesting, sometimes I don't listen very closely, depends on what I'm doing. Last week, I wasn't even at home to listen. More's the pity, as they apparently had some kind of discussion about the sex 'industry'. A woman contacted the show to say that she's been teaching pole-dancing for 3 years and is irritated when that gets lumped in with prostitiution by feminists; it's all healthy sexual expression for the women participants.
I was irritated enough to drag myself out of my warm, cozy bed.
Fair enough, it might just be a bit of fun for the women who choose to attend these classes, even though it's clearly heterosexual expression, and it ultimately is a display for the man. Maybe some lesbians enjoy it too, I don't see why they wouldn't, but where's the gay pole-dancing clubs? And, for that matter, what about clubs where men dance for female customers? (FYI: I wouldn't like them either.)
But what about the women who dance professionally, because they need the money? The set-up of these clubs in the UK means that the women are the least-protected, legally. And if a woman is told that she'll make more, if she does more? Where do you draw the line? Is prostitution just harmless sexual expression? Thinking about it, with the apparent popularity of Belle du Jour's books and similar, I wouldn't be surprised if that was the next 'thing'. Why stop there? I'm sure I've read sex tips from call girls in a glossy magazine (not pointing elbows, but Cosmo, I'm looking in your direction); why not prostitution classes? It's all just harmless fun apparently.
I'm amazed, sometimes, by the lack of logic some people exercise, especially when compared with the mental leaps and contortions they'll perform so that their belief can stay intact when compared with reality. Amazed.
*It's Brent Spiner's birthday. Weeee!
I was irritated enough to drag myself out of my warm, cozy bed.
Fair enough, it might just be a bit of fun for the women who choose to attend these classes, even though it's clearly heterosexual expression, and it ultimately is a display for the man. Maybe some lesbians enjoy it too, I don't see why they wouldn't, but where's the gay pole-dancing clubs? And, for that matter, what about clubs where men dance for female customers? (FYI: I wouldn't like them either.)
But what about the women who dance professionally, because they need the money? The set-up of these clubs in the UK means that the women are the least-protected, legally. And if a woman is told that she'll make more, if she does more? Where do you draw the line? Is prostitution just harmless sexual expression? Thinking about it, with the apparent popularity of Belle du Jour's books and similar, I wouldn't be surprised if that was the next 'thing'. Why stop there? I'm sure I've read sex tips from call girls in a glossy magazine (not pointing elbows, but Cosmo, I'm looking in your direction); why not prostitution classes? It's all just harmless fun apparently.
I'm amazed, sometimes, by the lack of logic some people exercise, especially when compared with the mental leaps and contortions they'll perform so that their belief can stay intact when compared with reality. Amazed.
*It's Brent Spiner's birthday. Weeee!
I think my eyes may fall out soon.
