I just came across the horrific news of the attempted suicide and subsequent death of Rehtaeh Parsons; a 15-year-old girl that was allegedly raped by four teen boys who then shared photos (a la Steubenville) to classmates. I’ll let Rehtaeh’s mother explain as she did from a post on “Rae’s” Facebook memorial page: The person Rehtaeh once was all changed one dreaded night in November 2011. She went with a friend to another’s home. In that home she was raped by four young boys…one of those boys took a photo of her being raped and decided it would be fun to distribute the photo to everyone in Rehtaeh’s school and community where it quickly went viral. Because the boys already had a “slut” story, the victim of the
Here are my Friday Faves on Tuesday. Because it’s better late than never and I’m sure you were expecting nothing less from me. I mean, it’s ME folks. A “loopsie” is what happens when two lesbians get accidentally pregnant. Alabama gives abortion the ol’ heave-ho. Well, they’re trying to anyway. Assholes. Mommy blogging IS a political act. The NY Times dedicates an entire pullout section to women on Wall Street and it’s surprisingly un-Sandberg. Thank the Heavens for that. I hope Liz Cheney keeps writing like a stark-raving lunatic. Seriously I do. I hope she continues to preach to the die-hards. It only means they’ll keep losing elections. Say Hi to Poppa Vader for us. Even Marilyn Monroe hated looking at pictures of herself [NSFW]. When women
I spent the last two days in Philly. On Friday night, I took the Kid down to the Titanic exhibit at the Franklin Institute and then today we strolled and did the playground thing on South Street. Both are iconic Philadelphia and for almost six months I have been confined to the suburbs and this house. I can now confirm to you that I will never kill myself. Because if there ever was a reason to grab the ol’ noose I leave around for those just in case moments every day of the past six months has been beyond noose worthy. Considering that I’m still here, I’m certain I can live through anything. Even torture. Like intentionally blaring “Call Me Maybe.” We may head back down
Last week I gorged on the last half of Season Three in an epic, late-night marathon. I did this to make sure that when the season was strung together without break, it would hold up to the first two. I watched Season One and Season Two this way and it’s how I became a huge fan. Slasher watched by-the-episode and he said Season One was unbelievable because the CDC was a ticking time bomb without any kind of resolution. By comparison, I breezed to the Season Two opener 30 seconds later and found out the gang made it out of the CDC. Slasher had to wait six months to find that out. —— As a whole, here’s what happened in Season 3: they find the prison, Laurie
Because I don’t have a real update until later, here’s an example of the kind of things I write to myself at 5 am. 300+ days ago.
I don’t know why I worry so damn much. Every time something good happens I am thoroughly shocked that the skies opened and out popped exactly what I wanted. No one is ever as surprised as me when this happens. I am perpetually pessimistic and worried that I am going to die without ever 1) leaving here 2) doing anything 3) finding comfort 4) losing a pound. And the losing a pound isn’t even a top priority, but I thought I would add it. Things do happen though and I am happy for about 30 seconds until I move on and shoot higher. This, I think, is the conundrum of wanting more — and, to be clear we’re not talking about things, we’re talking about moving up
Make no mistake that civil rights always win. Always. No matter how long the road, how hard the fight, how loud the opposition or how crushing the hate. From chains to white robes, votes and bras, AIDS to marriage. Eventually, we reach the mountain top. Because love is worth the fight. So is declaring it. With a ring, with a slip of paper, with any way that you want, with whoever you want. Officially. Because, officially, it’s been a long time coming. And the road may be longer. But we’ll be on the right side of history. Yes, the Underground Railroad was harder than changing an icon to red with two tiny strips of equality, but the sentiment is still the same. We are together.