Last Saturday night, I had two parties to attend. They were birthday functions for two awesome ladies who I love a whole lot (HI TESS AND HANNAH!) and I wanted to look nice for them. Making an effort to dress appropriately and maintain adequate hygiene is an easy, common way to show respect for a host or guest of honour* (*QR17(A)’s Guide To Humans And Their Strange Customs, Vol. 6 (3rd Ed), translated from the original binary).
I wore a dress. It was cold, so I wore a dress with long sleeves and put on heaps of layers underneath it. I also knew I’d be eating dumplings (yum!), so the dress was all baggy.
At the second party, a couple of men that nobody knew struck up a conversation with me and some other girls. That was fun! Leaving the house means you meet new people. Yay!
After a little while, one of the men bluntly asked me: “Are you naked under that dress?”
TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic descriptions of rape.
Hello! Me and my big mouth again.
It’s been a year since Slutwalk, the event that caused people to ask the question: “What are women getting in such a tizz about now? Did someone cancel The View? Has something happened with shoes?”
Of course, those were only certain types of people. Unfortunately, those types seem to be very noisy and have taken to their blogs and forums, both one year ago and now, to rage against this feminist machine and cry outrage at the thought of women congregating en masse for a purpose other than a quilting bee or mass marriage to a cult leader.
These types of people have things to say! And points of view! And objections! Unfortunately, nearly everything that comes dribbling out of their brains and sloshing onto the keyboard is batshit lunacy.
I want to save you, my delightful and good-looking blog readers, the trouble of wading through myriads of posts like this one until, if you’re like me, you start playing a drinking game by yourself with a bottle of cooking sherry and getting tanked because people keep saying that women don’t take enough responsibility for being gang-raped when they’re wearing a singlet. I have condensed the ravings of those who think that feminism is solely designed to set men’s souls and favourite toys on fire into this handy little list.
(Response to this article by Samantha Brick in The Daily Mail, 03 April 2012, in which Brick claims that “women hate beautiful women”.)
I’m gonna massively mess with your mind right now: I’m not gonna tell you what I look like. I’m not gonna say what my ethnicity is, my hair or eye colour, my height, weight, shoe size: Nothing. I’m also not going to give my opinion of your looks. All we need to know about each other is that we are both women, and one of us wrote an article that made me want to peel all my skin off (Hint: That was you). Continue reading
(Written in February 2009)
So the other day, a friend of mine relates the following story: She, a stunning blonde lass with a figure that makes me want to curl up under the covers eating cheesecake and sobbing, “I give up, I give up!” until I die of a burst stomach and the paramedics have to take off the roof of my house and winch my body out with a crane like those Texas people on A Current Affair, is at the tram station in Flinders Street. It’s a hot day and she’s appropriately attired in a summery dress. She asks one of the helpful public transport employees about the destination of the next tram. His response is to stare at her cleavage. And stare. And stare. And stare.