A political assassination. Okay, maybe that’s too strong—just another loudmouth getting shot in the political sphere. Way to make a martyr, motherfuckers. So here I am, watching a man die on repeat across social media. Welcome to the twenty-first century.
Meanwhile, my analytics start blowing up. Therrryyyyrrrreeee baaaaack. 4 hours and 46 minutes last I checked. 5 fucking hours looking for what now?
What now—every time someone gets shot, you have to check in on me, like I’m plotting something? What the fuck did I do? I’m so sick of this shit. I don’t give a fuck about Charlie Kirk. I don’t give a fuck about any of these people. Leave me out of it. I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m just loud. A bitch with a blog. And still you come after me.
Today I was yelling at my computer, realizing they got on my shit first thing—same as with the NYC shooter. Why am I considered such a threat? I don’t even own a gun. I’ve shot one once, clays at the Greenbriar Resort. Me and every president, apparently. That’s it. But it leaves me scared for my safety and freedom. Like—what are you afraid of? We’re living under a government that can pull people off the street into detention centers. Thank god I don’t speak Spanish, or I’d already be disappeared.
Fuck you, Aaron Ford. My rapist walks free and you won’t lift a fucking finger, but I live in fear of being accused of crimes I’m not even thinking of.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
This weekend was surreal. I met two guys. Turns out, in some high-school-drama-meets-horror-movie, they’re both fucking the same woman. And me. They’re jealous of each other, feeding me stories she told them about the other. But none of it lines up. I know the way women can be and I know, she's playing games. She’s lying to both, pitting them against each other, and both are eating it up.
Then the subject of her sexual assault comes up. They both confirm it, both say she went to them right after. I’m not doubting her on that to make it clear—but then they felt the need to explain her sexual assault to me in detail. As if I couldn’t possibly understand.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting there with PTSD clawing its way up my throat. I try to tell them about my experience, and it’s like I never spoke. All they can talk about is her. I could’ve said I was probed by aliens, and they wouldn’t have blinked. Like what the fuck am I, chopped liver?
And here’s the part that feels ugly: I got jealous, for lack of a better term for the feeling. Not because I begrudge her story, but because no one gave a shit about mine. Hours listening to what she went through, and my own story just skated past. It felt like I was in some sick competition—whose rape was raspiest? I wasn’t trying to one-up her. I just wanted to be heard.
Instead, I got reminded that I’m always “one of the guys.” The one who can handle it. The one who doesn’t need protecting. The one nobody worries about. And god, how I want someone to be protective of me. But I guess I’m not that girl. I never will be.
So yeah—if I ever cross paths with the guy who hurt her, I’ll beat his ass. And given the circle I might just end up meeting him, if I haven't already. This is a small fucking town for a big city.
I’m the protector.
Post script:
also, Reba the Bulldog's abuser was sentenced to prison today, but my rapist is still roaming the world free. Hurt a dog, cut a plea and still get prison time. Rape a woman on video? Nada.
Add comment
Comments