What My Abortion Gave Me

I don't understand the assumption that life stops at abortion. The idea that, should you not have had that abortion, everything would continue, but with a loving, adoring child at your side. Sure, they'd say, you'd have a bit less cash on hand, and times might be tough for a while, but it's worth it! You'd be saving another human life!
If you say so, ya boogerheads, but what would I be losing?

Well, how about we start with my daughter.

If it wasn't for having an abortion, The Kid would not exist. How's that work? Simple. You and me, we don't believe in fate. You because you're a good Godbag, me, because I don't follow that shit. I control my "destiny", and that's just the way it's gonna be.
And that means you can't erase the part of my life that happened post-abortion. You can't take that shit away from me, just to make me feel guilty.

I don't.

Remorse? My ass.
Do you honestly expect me to want to turn back time, relive the drunken haze of my early twenties, shoot my ass back to the ten foot by four foot room I shared, bring back G. and my retaliation against M, who would later prove himself time and time again to be one of the best friends I would ever have? Do you honestly think I would relive that, and instead of learning from it, moving on, slowly growing into the person I am today, instead of that, bow down to your religion, and carry that poor, pickled fetus to term?

No matter how hard you try, you can't take away my life. You can't make it stop at my abortion. It didn't. It won't.

So what happened after? Not much. I puked in the parking lot of Toys R Us, then went back to the B&B. We saw a snowboarding show. I moved home, out of fear, for a while. Dated a guy who had a Great Dane, and I fucking miss that dog. I loved that dog.
Went back to the Rockies, drank a little bit less, but not much. Worked, got bored, quit, worked got bored, quit.
And here's where it gets exciting:
Ran out of money. Wandered down the street with a resume, where I ran in to D., who just happened to be on a coffee break. And D.'s shop just happened to need someone. And D.'s manager was there, and had a shitty customer right before I came in, so just happened to need a staff member who cussed like a sailor, and didn't take shit from anyone. And hired me, to work the Back Store, where (?) just happened to work. And (?) just happened to have a friend who stopped in about once a week, and was single, and thought I was pretty damn cute. And I just happened to be bored then.

Thing is, there's no destiny there. I met The Ex through pure chance. And chance led to my daughter. I'm not gonna go and fuck with that, wondering about "What if's" and "Could be's". And the ant-abortion crew is riding on the idea that I'm too fucking stupid to figure this shit out.

Don't be. I'm not. I owe my life to my abortion. Maybe that's symbolic, maybe I'd have another life if I hadn't had an abortion (Never mind the fact that Shadow just told me that a girl from the group back home died in childbirth a couple of weeks ago). But whatever life I would have had, it wouldn't have included my daughter. And if anyone out there has the audacity to say, "But you would have had another child," well, seriously;

How would you feel about me taking away your children, and replacing them with an unknown, pickled fetus? Or even an unpickled fetus? Maybe a known child? You know that kid that you think is great, the one that you have play dates with every Sunday? Would you trade your child for that kid?

No. You wouldn't. And neither would I.

Guess what, you egg-loving freaks: I love my daughter. And ain't nothing you can say will make that go away. And I sure as hell ain't gonna let you make me feel guilty about the life that led me to her. Fuck that, "God blessed you with..." shit. Fuck that "Sanctity of (pre-born) life" shit.
I'd kill a hundred and fifty fetuses if I needed to to protect my daughter. And so would you. You know it, accept it. Move on.

One of Those Weeks

So it's been one of those weeks over here at the Impulsive abode.

First of all, I discovered that my stepbrother has apparently been deployed. I was a little unamused to open an e-mail from the parents, only to discover a cute and cuddly little pic of the bro shaking hands with our beloved prime minister. Traitorous bastard, that. I would disown him on the spot, or at least say mean, mean things to him which may or may not break his bones, if it wasn't for the fact that the picture was taken on the day that Harper was visiting "our boys" in Afghanistan. I say what now? When the fuck did Jared end up in Afghanistan? Or did Harper take a secret lunch break to fly back to shit-hole, Ontario, just to shake hands with my no-good, legal relation, before heading back out to Kandahar for dinner? See, shit like this is what makes me think my family is lacking something in the communication skills department.
That and, though I truly believe someone ought to kill that boy, by kill I mean maim and throttle, and by someone, I mean family. People launching missiles at him does not fit well in to my vision of his demise. So I'd appreciate it if anyone out there was planning on making Jared's sorry ass go boom, you don't. Please and thank you.

Second, I managed to fracture a rib on the weekend. Admittedly, the tequila did soften my landing somewhat, but not enough to protect my poor, calcium deprived bones. I gotta take up drinking monkeys lunches and brown cows more.
On the other hand, I'm now a shining star in the eyes of the security guard at my school. Since I hadn't yet figured out why I hurt, I spent Monday alternating between whining about my sore ribs and learning the arts of hacky sack as a means of distracting myself from the pain in my side. That night, I went to the doctor who got me some x-rays, and diagnosed me as mildly broken.
Ever since I told security the reason behind me prior whining, I've been the Goddess of Pain Tolerance in his books. Of course, I think it's more of an Unable to Diagnose Own Pain Levels and/or Causes sort of thing, but hey, whatever rocks your boat, I say.

The good news? I'm an Aunt. Well, again. Technically, I've been an Aunt for thirteen years now, but now I've got a nephew to throw in to the mix (four nieces prior, which, when you throw in The Kid, added up to a good start to a promising new matriarchy). Well, technically-technically, I've been an Aunt for twelve years, given that Jared did not meet his wife until her oldest was a year. Or technically-technically, ten years, when they got married and he legally adopted the eldest. Whatever.
I was holding out for ten girls in a row, but hey, we were half way there. Now if only someone would let me know what the name of my new nephew was, I'd be stoked.

The other good news? The Kid had a break through tonight: She drew a picture of a boy and a girl, and put bows in the boy's hair (not just the girl's hair). Good thing, because what with the weather warming up, it's getting a little embarrassing to take my little gender-schematic darling to Grandview Park on the weekends and try to silence those exclamations of, "But Megan's a boy! He's a boy, not a girl! A Boy!"
Well, no Kid, Megan's what he/she wants to be, not what you tell him/her to be. Now shut the fuck up before I haul your sorry ass back down to New West where we can stare blankly at Treehouse TV all day.
Seriously lacking in diplomacy, that.

So hey, made it through another week, and now it's off to finals I go.

Next week. Not now.

Stolen!

Yeah, I scammed this here meme from Maine. So here we go:

1) Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 24 and find line 5:

Yeah, I've got no excuses for the typos any more. That's right, pg 24, line five reads:
-DERIVATIVES aloofness n.
Hey, I'm a student. I kinda need that dictionary next to the computer.

2) Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?

That I still don't know left from right. Or lots and lots of air, take your pick.

3) What is the last thing you watched on TV?

Big comfy couch. That show seems to always be on. Funny, that.

4) With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?

My fridge, the train, the skytrain, oddly enough, nothing from the stripclub....my bad; the strip club commotion, and Wolf Parade, This Heart's On Fire. I have a soft spot for any song I can actually remember the lyrics for, and "This heart's on fire, this hearts on fire, this hearts on fire, this hearts on fire, this heart's on fire, this heart's..." is just about right for shit that'll fit in my memory.

5) When did you last step outside? What were you doing?

Let us never speak of today again. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Hell week, that's what.

6) Before you started this survey, what did you look at?

Um, this survey, at Maines. Stupid question, dont'cha think?

7) What are you wearing?

A tank top, scrubs, bunny slippers, and an eight hundred year old terry cloth bathrobe.
The usual.

8) Did you dream last night?

Right. Crunch week. I only wish I had time to dream.
Why am I still awake again?

9) When did you last laugh?

Seriously, people can remember this shit? You need to laugh more.
Either something I read on a blog struck me as hilarious, or some wingnuttery struck me as absurd, or my daughter existed, and was either awake, or asleep, or the cat walked into a wall, or I actually managed to open a bottle of wine All By Myself, and was giddy with delight at my bottle-opening skills, or someone, somewhere, said something, or a song started playing that I forgot existed, or I unexpectedly caught a glimpse of my scrawny-ass chicken legs in a mirror...

10) What is on the walls of the room you are in?

Oddly enough, nothing. I've lived here four years, and my livingroom/diningroom has nothing on the walls. The really strange thing is that people don't notice until they've been here at least 20 times. Then suddenly, it dawns on them....somethings missing here.

11) Seen anything weird lately?

Yeah, actually, I forgot about this until now: On the skytrain today, this guy sits next to me. He's got some problems, and is swearing loudly at his cell phone and newspaper (no one's on the phone, he's just swearing in its general direction.) Thing is, there was this family across from us with two boys, one's about five, the other maybe eight. Now here's the weirdness - neither one of the boys so much as bats an eye, or even glances in this guys direction. He's three feet away from them, screaming obscenities, and they don't even notice.
Now that's weird.

12) What do you think of this quiz?

It's a quiz?

13) Where did this question disappear to, and how did I make it vanish like that? A.K.A., Something about movies?

Right. My DVD players broken. My VCRs broken. There's no way I'm paying thirty bucks for a babysitter so I can go somewhere with uncomfortable seats and no smoking.
So last movie I saw was probably something on TBS, which means it was probably Jerry McGuire. Seriously, how can you make money off a channel that plays Jerry McGuire, and nothing but Jerry McGuire, 24/7?

14) If you turned into a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy in the morning?

Coffee and a pack of smokes. But I'd get them.....Delivered. Oh yeah, that's the life.

15) Tell me something about you that I don't know.

I tell pretty much everyone, pretty much anything about myself. Does that meet requirement for an answer?

16) If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?

Oh, my answers here are so done. Fuck that, just cause it ain't gonna happen, I'm gonna ditch out on all the usuals, and say I'd make everyone out of bubble gum, and take a bite out of any fucker that's pissed me off. Wait, that's a little overboard, isn't it? Okay, I'd make Paris Hilton work for a living. Just for shits and giggles.

17) Do you like to dance?

Define dance. I'm like Ellen Degeneres on the floor....Ellen with a broken leg, that is. Wait, yeah, I love it.

18) George Bush.

Fuck you.

19) Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?

I think I shall call it The Kid.

20) Imagine your boyfriend is making sweet love to his Xbox 360, what would you do?

Back away slowly, a little concerned about the possible repercussions of having chosen this great timing to have gone out and got myself commitmentified, and definitely worried about the fact that, up until I read this question, I seem to have no memory of this alleged "boyfriend". Then I back away faster.

21) Would you ever consider living abroad?

Wait, you sayin' someone told you bout the Secret-secret-Sweden Mission? Now you gotta die, mofo.

22) What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?

"Way to go, asshole, thought you were so smart not believing in me and all, didn't ya? Well, sucks to be So Very Wrong, doesn't it? Ha!...............No, seriously though, you were right. I don't exist. Had you fooled for a minute there, didn't I? Yeah, that was fun. Okay, well, I'd say 'See ya later', but you're in for a hella-long dirtnap, now aren't you? Well, good luck with that!"

Kids Suck

How do I know this? Because after spending the first four hours of my day listening to, "Can we go to the Bug Lab? Can we go to the Bug Lab? Can we go to the Bug Lab? Can we go to the Bug Lab?........"

I then spent the last half of the day being crawled on by Giant African Millipedes, Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches, stickbugs the size of my arm, and some weird blue beetles that are supposed to play dead when they're scared, but apparently didn't find me scary.
Meanwhile, from a safe ten feet away, my daughter's carefully documenting my trauma in all it's crayola'd glory.

Am I the only one who gets disturbed when someone says, "Hold this," and hands you one of these:
Then leaves? What the heck am I supposed to do with that? And why does it insist on trying to climb up my arm, into my sleeve, and make itself cozy in my armpit? Why did you leave me? And what the hell am I supposed to do with The Kid sitting there laughing her ass off at me, while still a good ten feet away?
Because if it was anyone else, I wouldn't be above shoving that thang down their pants, but given The Kid is four, I'm pretty sure that doing so would fall under the heading of Bad Parenting.

And that's my Sunday, in a nutshell. Or carapace.

Test.

Testing...will this post? We'll find out.

Fucking blogspot.

Impulsivecompulsive's Where The Fuck Is My Blog Edition

Because: Where the fuck is my blog? Somehow, Forbidden 403, is doing nothing for me. So instead, I'll watch ER.
Yeah, I still watch ER. I know that the good stuff went out with Dr. Green, and whomever the fuck George Clooney played, I don't care.
Because sometimes things aren't meant to be taken at face value. Face value, in itself, is a self-defeating term. The notion of face insinuates something deeper. Under the face, we have bone, then marrow, then synopsis, some form of entity, within that, personality, and within it all, some form of spirit. Therefore, face value encompasses everything that we can never really understand, and includes everything that makes up the rest of life. All the voids that will never be filled. There is no such thing as face value, it's merely a means of dummying down the world to child like simplicity in the hopes that false belief in understanding will make us sleep easier at night.
And that there's my reason for not accepting face value. And maybe not my reason for watching ER, but my reason for finding deeper meaning within a show that, in all honesty, kind of sucks.
So tonight, we talk about ER. Exciting, no?
Anyway, that doctor who may or may not be chief of staff, with the hip problem, and the son named Harry, she's getting hip replacement surgery, which she's been putting off for a while now. Turns out she's been putting it off because of her fear of leaving her son without a legal guardian, should things go wrong....
And Ohhhh!!! There it goes! That's called touching a nerve right there, folks.

My daughter has a guardian. A semi-legal, hopefully not to be contested guardian, should I die. But semi-legal doesn't guarantee anything, and chances are I should have followed the advice of my lawyer (a.k.a. friends wife) and gotten that shit written up properly, and notarized. And yet, since we've had that meeting (a.k.a. long and boring intercontinental flight, post-hostess induced end to poker tournament) I haven't done squat to that old will of mine.

The Ex.

Well, you're wrong.

The Ex wouldn't contest shit. Chances are, The Ex would have no idea if I should die, and that's one thing we finally agreed on. He lives his life, hopefully far from here, and we'll live ours. Someday, he'll be ready for a family, and he'll find himself a bright eyed, sweet girl, with a heart of gold that she just wishes someone would see. He'll see it, and be enamoured of the fact that she's enamoured of the fact that he's paying attention to her. They'll have 2.6 kids, and live happily ever after, with yellow paisley curtains and a cocker spaniel named Joe. And that's okay, because no matter how much he disgusts me, somewhere out there is someone who could bring out the best in him, and they will be happy, and he will be a better person for it.

The Family.

My mother once told me a story about how she wanted to find what was in the middle of the onion. She peeled back the layers, one by one, until nothing was left. Thus it became clear that there was nothing in the middle of this onion.
This would have been a good story, if she'd meant it as a metaphor, but she didn't. She was honestly amused at the fact that she thought there ought to be something in the onion. There's also the possibility that she never actually peeled back that onion, and that was merely a story she'd read in college, shortly before her breakdown, then incorporated into later memories as one of her own.
Had that story really been a metaphor, it would have applied well to my family. At it's core, we don't amount to much. But if you add those layers, it's history making, fuck, history breaking shit. Add a couple of step-parents, dragging ten new siblings, reproduce to throw some additional grandkids/kids/nieces into the mix, and don't forget the cousins, and it goes on.
However you do the math, I have mucho mucho family, some closer, some more distant. And strong family ties, the bane of anyone from a large family. And within my family, I have some amazing people. Scratch that, a hell of a lot of amazing people. My stepsister was dispatcher during the first dog rescue of avalanche victims that survived. Next stepsister: junior b boys hockey at the age of fifteen. Stepbrothers: army (medic), model, and nuclear physicist (but pacifist, only uses his powers for good). Moving on; chief of staff, silicone valley lawyer, olympic level long distance runner, (provincially) acclaimed artist, first engineer to introduce wind power to Saskatchewan, girl who, at the age of fourteen, organized and hosted a profitable punk show. The rest are all dentists, socially active lawyers, doctors, or socially active government officials.

But they're not here. And I'm not there. And neither is my daughter.

I don't doubt my potential as a parent, although there's nothing then I want more than to take her on a road trip Back Home. I wish she could see what we can be, not as us, but as people. What some people take for granted.

When it comes down to it, I'm terrified of dying. I know, we all are, but there's something to be said for those new studies that are coming out. You know the ones, where they compare a fetus to a parasite, feeding off its host, unable to survive without it?
What those studies forget to mention is that it doesn't go away after a child is born. I've had a good life, and a bad life, and an in between life, but it's been mine. Should I, on my own, die, that would be a loss, but every life comes to an end at it's given time.
Add The Kid to the equation, and everything changes. The continuation of my life goes from a want to a need. The idea that I could die before she's ready for me to die infuriates me. There is nothing I can do for her. There is no way I could make this okay. I can't ask people who I haven't seen for years to take on a new child, and I can't justify sending her to complete strangers in the most difficult time of her childhood.
So should I die, my daughter would go to a close friend. One who's grown with me, worked as my "nanny" for a time, knows my daughter, and knows how I would want her raised.

And isn't my family. Doesn't know my family. Should I die, would likely end up fighting that same family in court, for the custody of my daughter.

The only thing holding my daughter to my world is me. And that's a pretty thin thread to hang her life on. Yet there's nothing I can do about it, other than hope like hell that I don't die. Once I'm gone, I haven't only lost my life, I've lost the entire history of my child. Her past, her links, her ties, things I haven't even introduced to her. But there's never enough time, never enough money. There's so much out there that she could build on, but there's no guarantees that I'll be able to give that to her, and that scares the shit out of me.

There's no ending here. This is it.

Excuses, Excuses

So basically, this shit has traumatized me into action.
Thanks, Maine. Thanks a lot.

And what am I gonna do about it? Well to start, I'm gonna make excuses. Fuck midterms. Fuck diseases. Fuck visitors, unless they get me drunk, laid, or fix my closet doors/toilet/entry way light. Okay, unfuck the visitors. Except the getting laid part. Keep fucking those ones. Me, not you. What ev.

So yeah, my classes, as per usual, did that thing where you've got midterms followed by a series of tests and assignments that keep on coming at a steady pace until finals. Except, of course, midterms get pushed back until they land right squat in the middle of your birthday, and cram those proceeding tests and assignments into a two-a-day schedule which you're just not gonna make it through without giving up on food, sleep, any promises you may have made to anyone, anywhere, for any reason, and child rearing.

Shit; Where is my kid, anyway?

Put the brakes on, right on the same day as you have two midterms back to back, to come down with the fucking Spanish Flu or some shit like that. Possibly a cold, but no one ever called me less than whiny when it comes to sick. Fuck you. I gave birth. I can whine if I want too.

So now I'm a week behind in my readings/assignments/lectures (Of which there is no way I'm giving up a smoke break to photocopy someone else's notes, sorry recently recuperated GPA, you're goin' down. Again.)

And what can I think about? Sex. I need sex. And bad. Hell, I've taken up shaving regularly on the off chance that, should I be walking down the street and slip, fall, and land on a penis, I'll be prepared. But I'm so fucking crunched for time that I have not yet packed some beers in my fridge and batteries in my vibe to help me through this. Hell, just about the only thing in my fridge is one stale brownie, and that's not gonna help much. (All you "chocolate as good as sex" people, step off. I don't know who you're screwing, but if they can't beat a brownie, you'd best be moving on.)

And that's all I've got on that. So from here on out, it's fun and funky link day. Read on, my good folks, and don't forget to click that mouse. Or send me a mail order boy toy, if you'd like. One or the other:

• My bad. I do believe I totally off-topic-ed this comment section. So if anyone remembers Webster, or has another was cute, but on further review, is kinda freaky show, go tither. Sorry, Matt.
• I think that this completely justifies me doing this:

• And still calling myself a feminist. Because every once in a while, you forget that feminists are people too, and hell, it's just one political version of the "No, I'm more Indie than you," debate. So yeah, in my world, feminism is good, but that doesn't make my boobs any less lovable. Cause I think they're just dandy.
• And don't worry, I haven't forgotten that Stephen Harper's an ass.
  
• I need some new tunes. Advise.
• Yeah, that's about it. I'm gonna go think about sex now.

Later.

No Means No Q & A

But first, some advice for the police of New West: Get snow tires. You never know when you might need them, like say, right now, as you slowly slide your way down the street, lights flashing all policy like. You ain't gettin' nowhere guys. That's just sad. If the rear end of your car keeps attempting to race the front end, you've got problems.

Now on to the main point. There seems to be some problems with the No Means No concept. Round these parts, it's not so much a problem of, "But I just don't buy that answer," as a problem of, "What to do about the rare minority that actually means yes." And of course, I'm loaded down with answers for you. Five of them, to be precise.

First, and most pertinent to the bar pickup situation, just about the easiest thing you can do is... Take the easy way out! Take "No" at face value. We're not so big on generalizations here, whether they be about minorities, women, religions, (and no, that doesn't mean I'm gonna stop mocking Christian wingnuts, it's just to damn easy), so if a subfaction of women mean Yes when they say No, that shouldn't reflect on the majority. Done deal. No. Out. Movin' on. It's safe, it's easy, and you don't even have to waste time wondering.

Now, working with the theory that there are women who say No when they mean Yes, and you really are going to get in shit for not figuring out that No means Yes, and will suffer the consequences? That there would be time to take up the woman's mantra, repeated over many a double skim mochacinno, "Girl (boy), you're to good for that shit anyway. Best you learned early, before you wasted anymore time on that ass (ass)." So maybe there are women out there who mean Yes. Do you really want to go there? I didn't think so.

Of course, this whole thing changes up once you get to know someone. Now that we've come to the happy conclusion that women really aren't your property, and, lo and behold! still have some say over there sexuality even after some level of commitment to a man, No isn't so easily defined. Sure, No means no, but if you're wife says No because she's freakin' exhausted and cranky, that probably doesn't mean never touch her again, ever, forever. Problems, problems. And this is where the real yelling is most likely to occur. Here's the point where you might want to move beyond the No, and listen to the Words. Take a couple of examples here:

It's your first/third/tenth date, and you get a kiss good night at the door, which moves it's way into the entry, which gradually backs down the hall, knocking down numerous family portraits in it's progress, and eases into the living room and onto the couch (barring passed out roommates, visiting parents, or gossipy babysitters, that is). But at the couch, progress is stopped by a, "this is moving to fast." Does that mean No? Sure thang! But my guess is, if you react with a muttered, "Right. To fast. I'm out." and bolt for the door, well, that relationship just stopped right in it's tracks now, didn't it? And chances are you dodged some missiles on your way out too.

How about this? Your wife walks in, throws herself at the couch, and hucks her shoes at a random cat that looks like it deserved it. You snuggle, then Snuggle, then she says, "Look, I just got off work, I'm tired, I fucking stink, and my head is killing me." Does this mean No? Once again, yes. But if you react by flipping on sports center with the volume cranked and passively wait for your dinner, oh you're gonna pay.

So what does no mean?
Stop what you've been told to stop doing. In the bar case, that usually means making any sort of contact whatsoever. But if you have any vested interest in someone, it probably refers to a specific action at a specific time. And if your response is to bail completely, well it's kinda gonna come off like you're just in it for the sex. And that's when you're gonna get hurt. Badly.

So how far should you back off? Well, if the answer's not clear right in the No, you might try a little communication. Date? "Sure thing. You must be tired, want me to make some coffee, or should I get out, so you can get some rest?" Wife? "Tylonol? Bubble bath? Or I could order in some butter chicken, and we could just flop. Whatcha figure?"

And you never know, sometimes No means right now, but not once I've had some time to relax/think about it/get over my freakishly shitty commute. And you don't want to fuck up that opportunity, do you? Hell, no, I say.

Okay, so we've got four points down, so let's reiterate:
1)Realize that what a minority of a group does need not apply to the group as a whole. No usually means no. Run with it.
2)If No means head games, you don't need that anyway. Move on. Go with no.
3)When involved with the naysayer, take the version of No you hear at its face value. Not "no sex here, move along, move along," but, "No sex here, now gimme a foot massage and a creme brulee."
4)When in doubt as to the exact applications of No, ask. (But put on the brakes first.)

Remember that points three and four do not apply to pickups. Then, No should always mean a big fat No.

Hmmm. Okay then. I see you've got a problem with this. I saw you nodding your way through point one, then do that head tip, thinkin' about it thing for point two, then back to more vehement nodding for point three and four. And that head tip turned into a rather vocal sigh when I reiterated point two, didn't it? Those point two girls are really bothering you aren't they? Those ones that want to be convinced, don't want to admit that they really want you.

Well, I have an answer for that too. Reduce their numbers. All it takes is a little violence on your part. Oh yeah, get out the punching bag, and work on your back hand slap across the face, cause you're gonna need it. Holy crap, where the hell is she going with this?
Here's the deal: Every time one of your boys says, "Yeah, I slept with that slut," slap him. Just do it. Keep it up, after a while it'll be a reflex action. That lawyer that uses the, "Well, she's no virgin," tactic to get his boy off the rape charges could use a good smack up side the head too. Sure, hit a lawyer you're gonna get sued, but it's for a good cause. What else are you going to do with that rainy day fund anyway? Oh, and that guy in your office who brags about how many "whores" he's done, him too. Cause as long as there's guys running around saying that girls are skanks if they enjoy sex, there's gonna be girls who retaliate by pretending not to enjoy sex. If those guys actually lived by the rules that they feel the need to try to impose on women, there wouldn't be a problem. They started it, so blame them, vocally and/or violently. It's a service to the entire world of copulation. Those girls are damn near an urban legend, so do your job to wipe that legend out, by ditching any reason for women to feel the need to act that way. Then you'll never have to worry about whether that No really meant Yes.

And hey, who can resist a little ass kicking for the greater good?

Guilted Into Submission

Ho ho (again)! Hey hey (again)! It's International Women's Day (still, but later)!

So for your merry perusal, I've come to help with a couple of questions that have been befuddling and confuselling a proportion of the less-fair sex for some time now. These questions being:
1) What does no mean?
and
2) What, exactly means no?
Yes boys, I feel your pain. I realize that no means no is a vague concept, lacking the specificity and simplicity that the mind can easily embrace. But answers I do have! And with you, I will share. So get your pencils and notepads, and take a few notes.
First: What does no mean?
Well, no means:

• I do not want to fuck you.

But it's so much more than that! You thought I'd stop there, did you? Well, no. It goes on:

• Just because I said I wouldn't fuck you does not mean you should aim for a blow job.
• Or a hummer.
• Or tit fucking.
• Or a hand job.

Damn, these rules just keep on getting harder, don't they? Well, fasten your seat belts, cause it gets worse....no can extend to beyond sexual acts. Oh dear. See, no may also mean:

• Although I'm sure your charm and chivalry are lovely, I'm actually enjoying dinner with my friends, and am not here to pick up.
• Why yes, my tits are lovely, but as I don't know you, I'm not sure I see how that's your problem, and would suggest you back off.
• The fact that we are temporarily forced to share a table due to common acquaintances does not give you the privilege of playing pretend, as a means of tricking your peers into thinking I am, in fact, your property.
• If my friend turns to me for conversation as a means of avoiding you, you do not have the right to interrupt our conversation to switch to hitting on me.

Well, I've successfully bored myself with those little examples, so to keep things simple, lets just say that no means You, man, have no rights to enforce yourself on Me, woman, simply because you feel you ought to fuck me. If you wish to mark your territory, head outside and piss on a tree. Otherwise, assume that if a woman does not wish for your company, she is not obligated to endure your company, inside or outside of the bedroom.

So, on to question two:
What means no?

• No (This should be a good place to start.)
• Back off.
• I don't like you.
• I'm a lesbian.
• What the fuck is wrong with you? Go away.
• Don't talk to me.
• Get the fuck away from me.
• Fuck off. Fuck right off. Fuck off right now. Fuck off you fucking prick. Don't fucking touch me.

Easy, isn't it? Well, you would think so. Unfortunately if there's anything my little circle of friends learned this week, it's that such concepts are, in fact, unfamiliar to some.

So you had a run in with a couple of drunken losers who wouldn't lay off. This isn't the patriarchy, this is three idiots who don't know when to stop the whiskey flow, you say? I could buy that. After all, I'm pretty sure my known readers don't need the above lists to figure out the meaning of no. I don't trust you lurkers, though. Sneaky little buggers. (No, I'm not serious. Please don't leave. Don't go. I need the attention. Please?)
As I was saying, not patriarchal, just drunkery, right? Well, let's look at two situations here, then you decide:

Two men, one large, one small. The larger man has just threatened to kill an acquaintance of the smaller man. Larger man is now well within the personal space of smaller man, in a face to face confrontation. Larger man will not back off of smaller man, and will not allow room for smaller man to back away.

Who's in the wrong here? I'd say the big, violent guy who's forcing himself on others, wouldn't you?

A large man has just threatened to kill the acquaitance of a woman. The man is now well within the personal space of the woman, and refuses to back off, or leave her alone.

So you restrain the woman on the grounds that she's obviously PMSing if she doesn't want his attentions. She don't know her own mind, ya'll. What kinda fucked up bitch would complain about a perfectly nice, well employed man hitting on her?

Oh, you so know where I'm going with this, don't you? That's right! It just doesn't work that way. There's a point where if a guy is backed into a corner by someone else, that man will fight. And the same applies to a woman.
Deal.

Ho ho! Hey hey! It's International Women's Day!

Sick. Tired. Hate midterms. Do not trust my sliding glass door, as I think it is making plans to explode right now.
I was going to post something great yet virulent for International Women's Day, but right now, I just don't care. Instead, I'll give you the short version:
There's a good chance your gonna get the shit kicked out of you.

In other news, here's some belated birthday boobs.

Question of the day: Who out there actually cares how the toilet paper's hung? Cause I'm pretty anal, and even I don't give a fuck.

And I'm out, to sit and glare at the sliding glass door (from a safe distance), in the hopes that I can scare it out of action.