I know a lot of people don’t agree with plenty of things she did while she was Prime Minister, but I find it so disrespectful to see people celebrating. She was a human being with a family, friends, children, etc. I hope you all feel very ashamed and when a relative of yours passes imagine how upset you’d feel if people were happy about it
Fuck you, first of all, for making it nearly impossible for decent men struggling with abusive partners or unfair custody arrangements to get the help they need and deserve. You have forever tainted those issues with your rage-filled, obsessively anti-women horse shit, to the point where it’s become difficult for any rational, compassionate person to trust a man who claims he’s been screwed over in family court or abused by a female partner, even if he has.
That’s right – I fully understand that those things happen. I fully believe that men in those situations deserve help, and I know they’re generally less likely to ask for it than women are, not to mention less likely to find help there for them when they do go looking. I get how our society’s ridiculously rigid ideas about masculinity mean that men are brought up to believe needing help will make them look weak, especially if it’s a woman who’s terrorizing them. I know those same suffocating standards also encourage men to stifle strong feelings and any nurturing tendencies, which deprives them of the right to experience the full range of human emotions without shame. That completely fucking sucks! You know how I know all that, and why I think it sucks?
BECAUSE I’M A FEMINIST.
That’s the thing, MRAS. By and large, feminists are really into equality, involved fathers, justice for all, dismantling bullshit gender roles, and helping folks leave dangerous relationships. We would be the natural allies of MRAs, if MRAs were sincerely committed to the causes with which they claim to be chiefly concerned. But no, today’s MRAs – unlike the 1970s movement that earnestly sought to free men, alongside women, from the constraints of gender stereotypes, or the 1980s branch that involved a lot of drum circles and crap poetry – are chiefly concerned with one thing, and one thing only: Putting feminists in their place. Which is in the kitchen at best and in the ground at worst, of you ask these unapologetically misogynistic bags of rot.
So fuck you, MRAs. Fuck you for showing up every time women speak, especially about rape and abuse, and trying to make it all about you. Fuck you for derailing threads about victims of Marc Lepine, a man who screamed about his hatred for feminists as her murdered fourteen women and injured many others, because you also hate feminists and want a fucking cookie for not killing anyone. Fuck you for make rape and death threats against young women who dared to protest a speaking engagement by a man who thinks little girls would enjoy being raped by their fathers if it weren’t for society telling them it’s dirty. Fuck you for whining about how unfair it is that women might wonder if you’re a rapist when you approach them out of nowhere, while completely ignoring how unfair it is that women feel the need to be on guard all the time in public. Or that if we relax and behave normally – drinking, dancing, dressing however we want – you will be the first mother fuckers in line to blame us for getting ourselves raped.
Fuck some of you for being so contemptuous of women, you don’t even believe in convicting rapists. Fuck all of you for doing your very best to propagate myths that make it harder for women to be safe – that we’re a bunch of lying temptresses who bang hapless men and file bogus rape charges for the lulz, for instance, or that we get into perfectly even fights with our hard working loving husbands, then call the cops and have them arrested because we’re spiteful bitches. Fuck you for blaming women, feminists, the legal system, and men who aren’t misogynistic assholes for your own inability to relate to other human beings in appropriate ways.
Fuck you for pretending your primary goal as a ‘movement’ is anything other than control of women’s lives and bodies. Fuck you for being so delusional about how women behave in the real world, you fell for a parody of your worst nightmare – and lined up to support a guy who told you he’d punched his girlfriend. Fuck you for arguing, presumably straight-faced, that facing consequences for hitting your child is basically the same as being a Jewish person in Nazi Germany.
Fuck you for trying to make ‘misandry’ happen. Your feminist enemies don’t hate men; we only hate men who proudly stand up for the rights of abusers, rapists, and deadbeat dads.
Fortunately, there aren’t very many of you, no matter how hard you try to build a ‘movement’. The simple fact is, most men don’t beat, rape, or resent caring for their own children, and this have no need for the kind of support and ‘activism’ you specialize in. The ‘work’ you do guarantees you’ll continue to attract entitled shitbags who hate women, while driving away decent people who thought you might something interesting to say – right up until they realized what you’re about.
Finally, here is my reply to every pro-MRA comment that has been, or will be left on this thread or any other: Fuck you.
Fuck you, first of all, for making it nearly impossible for decent men struggling with abusive partners or unfair custody arrangements to get the help they need and deserve. You have forever tainted those issues with your rage-filled, obsessively anti-women horse shit, to the point where it’s become difficult for any rational, compassionate person to trust a man who claims he’s been screwed over in family court or abused by a female partner, even if he has.
That’s right – I fully understand that those things happen. I fully believe that men in those situations deserve help, and I know they’re generally less likely to ask for it than women are, not to mention less likely to find help there for them when they do go looking. I get how our society’s ridiculously rigid ideas about masculinity mean that men are brought up to believe needing help will make them look weak, especially if it’s a woman who’s terrorizing them. I know those same suffocating standards also encourage men to stifle strong feelings and any nurturing tendencies, which deprives them of the right to experience the full range of human emotions without shame. That completely fucking sucks! You know how I know all that, and why I think it sucks?
BECAUSE I’M A FEMINIST.
That’s the thing, MRAS. By and large, feminists are really into equality, involved fathers, justice for all, dismantling bullshit gender roles, and helping folks leave dangerous relationships. We would be the natural allies of MRAs, if MRAs were sincerely committed to the causes with which they claim to be chiefly concerned. But no, today’s MRAs – unlike the 1970s movement that earnestly sought to free men, alongside women, from the constraints of gender stereotypes, or the 1980s branch that involved a lot of drum circles and crap poetry – are chiefly concerned with one thing, and one thing only: Putting feminists in their place. Which is in the kitchen at best and in the ground at worst, of you ask these unapologetically misogynistic bags of rot.
So fuck you, MRAs. Fuck you for showing up every time women speak, especially about rape and abuse, and trying to make it all about you. Fuck you for derailing threads about victims of Marc Lepine, a man who screamed about his hatred for feminists as her murdered fourteen women and injured many others, because you also hate feminists and want a fucking cookie for not killing anyone. Fuck you for make rape and death threats against young women who dared to protest a speaking engagement by a man who thinks little girls would enjoy being raped by their fathers if it weren’t for society telling them it’s dirty. Fuck you for whining about how unfair it is that women might wonder if you’re a rapist when you approach them out of nowhere, while completely ignoring how unfair it is that women feel the need to be on guard all the time in public. Or that if we relax and behave normally – drinking, dancing, dressing however we want – you will be the first mother fuckers in line to blame us for getting ourselves raped.
Fuck some of you for being so contemptuous of women, you don’t even believe in convicting rapists. Fuck all of you for doing your very best to propagate myths that make it harder for women to be safe – that we’re a bunch of lying temptresses who bang hapless men and file bogus rape charges for the lulz, for instance, or that we get into perfectly even fights with our hard working loving husbands, then call the cops and have them arrested because we’re spiteful bitches. Fuck you for blaming women, feminists, the legal system, and men who aren’t misogynistic assholes for your own inability to relate to other human beings in appropriate ways.
Fuck you for pretending your primary goal as a ‘movement’ is anything other than control of women’s lives and bodies. Fuck you for being so delusional about how women behave in the real world, you fell for a parody of your worst nightmare – and lined up to support a guy who told you he’d punched his girlfriend. Fuck you for arguing, presumably straight-faced, that facing consequences for hitting your child is basically the same as being a Jewish person in Nazi Germany.
Fuck you for trying to make ‘misandry’ happen. Your feminist enemies don’t hate men; we only hate men who proudly stand up for the rights of abusers, rapists, and deadbeat dads.
Fortunately, there aren’t very many of you, no matter how hard you try to build a ‘movement’. The simple fact is, most men don’t beat, rape, or resent caring for their own children, and this have no need for the kind of support and ‘activism’ you specialize in. The ‘work’ you do guarantees you’ll continue to attract entitled shitbags who hate women, while driving away decent people who thought you might something interesting to say – right up until they realized what you’re about.
Finally, here is my reply to every pro-MRA comment that has been, or will be left on this thread or any other: Fuck you.
This guy, is so spot on about a lot of things.
I love this. Amen!
I don’t have to tell you that Steubenville is all over the news.
I don’t have to tell you that it’s a fucking joke that Trent Mays and Ma’lik Richmond, the two teenagers convicted of raping a sixteen year old girl, were only sentenced to a combined three years in juvenile prison. Each will serve a year for the rape itself; Mays will serve an additional year for “illegal use of a minor in nudity-oriented material.”
I probably don’t even have to tell you that the media treatment of this trial has been a perfect, if utterly sickening, example of rape culture, with its focus on how difficult and painful this event has been for the rapists who raped a sixteen year old girl then bragged about it on social media.
And I almost certainly don’t have to tell you that the world is full of seemingly nice, normal…
View original post 882 more words
I’ve got a lot of love for pigtails at the moment.
…got… the death cell blues…
what do I do… what do I do…
waiting… wondering…
… I the smashed clock…
its dial I dare not watch…
waiting… listening…
each tiny sound… every footstep…
waiting… wondering…
how long now?
… waiting for the darkness
for my shortest day…
…my racing mind
… heightened imagination
waiting… wondering…
how long now?
any sudden trip…
but in that brief moment…
imagining that drop to obscurity
You will never hear me say
that I desire to fix you,
because that would mean
[in some way, shape, or form]
that you were broken.
And you can tell me
about all of the battles
that you claim you’ve lost,
and all of the monsters
who’ve trampled your heart.
It won’t change the fact
that you still choose to love
with the utmost pristine compassion
under the utmost detrimental conditions.
So, my love,
please believe me when I say
that the last thing you need
is fixing.
I think that if you let me,I’d treat you like the sky,
I’d join up all your insecurities
and bundle all your flaws.
I’d create a new constellation
and search for it endlessly.
I know you don’t see yourself,
the way I see you.
And you still argue,
when I call you beautiful.
But all the things you can’t stand
about yourself,
are all the things I can’t
go a day without,
I think that if you let me,
I’d build an observatory,
just to show you
that all stars
will never shine as bright
as you.
If you were a dinosaur, my love, then you would be a T-Rex. You’d be a small one, only five feet, ten inches, the same height as human-you. You’d be fragile-boned and you’d walk with as delicate and polite a gait as you could manage on massive talons. Your eyes would gaze gently from beneath your bony brow-ridge.
If you were a T-Rex, then I would become a zookeeper so that I could spend all my time with you. I’d bring you raw chickens and live goats. I’d watch the gore shining on your teeth. I’d make my bed on the floor of your cage, in the moist dirt, cushioned by leaves. When you couldn’t sleep, I’d sing you lullabies.
If I sang you lullabies, I’d soon notice how quickly you picked up music. You’d harmonize with me, your rough, vibrating voice a strange counterpoint to mine. When you thought I was asleep, you’d cry unrequited love songs into the night.
If you sang unrequited love songs, I’d take you on tour. We’d go to Broadway. You’d stand onstage, talons digging into the floorboards. Audiences would weep at the melancholic beauty of your singing.
If audiences wept at the melancholic beauty of your singing, they’d rally to fund new research into reviving extinct species. Money would flood into scientific institutions. Biologists would reverse engineer chickens until they could discover how to give them jaws with teeth. Paleontologists would mine ancient fossils for traces of collagen. Geneticists would figure out how to build a dinosaur from nothing by discovering exactly what DNA sequences code everything about a creature, from the size of its pupils to what enables a brain to contemplate a sunset. They’d work until they’d built you a mate.
If they built you a mate, I’d stand as the best woman at your wedding. I’d watch awkwardly in green chiffon that made me look sallow, as I listened to your vows. I’d be jealous, of course, and also sad, because I want to marry you. Still, I’d know that it was for the best that you marry another creature like yourself, one that shares your body and bone and genetic template. I’d stare at the two of you standing together by the altar and I’d love you even more than I do now. My soul would feel light because I’d know that you and I had made something new in the world and at the same time revived something very old. I would be borrowed, too, because I’d be borrowing your happiness. All I’d need would be something blue.
If all I needed was something blue, I’d run across the church, heels clicking on the marble, until I reached a vase by the front pew. I’d pull out a hydrangea the shade of the sky and press it against my heart and my heart would beat like a flower. I’d bloom. My happiness would become petals. Green chiffon would turn into leaves. My legs would be pale stems, my hair delicate pistils. From my throat, bees would drink exotic nectars. I would astonish everyone assembled, the biologists and the paleontologists and the geneticists, the reporters and the rubberneckers and the music aficionados, all those people who—deceived by the helix-and-fossil trappings of cloned dinosaurs– believed that they lived in a science fictional world when really they lived in a world of magic where anything was possible.
If we lived in a world of magic where anything was possible, then you would be a dinosaur, my love. You’d be a creature of courage and strength but also gentleness. Your claws and fangs would intimidate your foes effortlessly. Whereas you—fragile, lovely, human you—must rely on wits and charm.
A T-Rex, even a small one, would never have to stand against five blustering men soaked in gin and malice. A T-Rex would bare its fangs and they would cower. They’d hide beneath the tables instead of knocking them over. They’d grasp each other for comfort instead of seizing the pool cues with which they beat you, calling you a fag, a towel-head, a shemale, a sissy, a spic, every epithet they could think of, regardless of whether it had anything to do with you or not, shouting and shouting as you slid to the floor in the slick of your own blood.
If you were a dinosaur, my love, I’d teach you the scents of those men. I’d lead you to them quietly, oh so quietly. Still, they would see you. They’d run. Your nostrils would flare as you inhaled the night and then, with the suddenness of a predator, you’d strike. I’d watch as you decanted their lives—the flood of red; the spill of glistening, coiled things—and I’d laugh, laugh, laugh.
If I laughed, laughed, laughed, I’d eventually feel guilty. I’d promise never to do something like that again. I’d avert my eyes from the newspapers when they showed photographs of the men’s tearful widows and fatherless children, just as they must avert their eyes from the newspapers that show my face. How reporters adore my face, the face of the paleontologist’s fiancée with her half-planned wedding, bouquets of hydrangeas already ordered, green chiffon bridesmaid dresses already picked out. The paleontologist’s fiancée who waits by the bedside of a man who will probably never wake.
If you were a dinosaur, my love, then nothing could break you, and if nothing could break you, then nothing could break me. I would bloom into the most beautiful flower. I would stretch joyfully toward the sun. I’d trust in your teeth and talons to keep you/me/us safe now and forever from the scratch of chalk on pool cues, and the scuff of the nurses’ shoes in the hospital corridor, and the stuttering of my broken heart.
ajsanders 