My Closure to that CBF Nonsense: Stillie Style

In my last post, I was expressing some very strong thoughts about something that was a current event at that time and, in response, decided to exorcize some demons and write about my own experiences that, in my mind, were true examples of the pathetic definition of "violation" being used by this women. I said I was going to continue writing posts about my own experiences. 

But I couldn't. I got to the situation where I was raped by someone I thought was a friend and that was as far as I could go. Writing the post got me angry. It made feel rage and hatred and embarrassment and shamefulness and disgust where before it had been shoved deep down inside and feelings were buried. Yes, I felt a lot of it within the few days following the rape but then I ignored them.

So I did what any other woman scorned would do. I hunted that motherfucker down.

In a former life, I worked for an auto repossession company. My job was to "skiptrace," the industry jargon to describe how I found people who didn't want to be found and, hopefully, that would lead us to the car. And we found them by any means necessary because, unlike bill collection, there are very few laws governing how we got the information we needed to track down debtors.

Kind of an aside story; feel free to scroll past if you don't care about repo tactics...

And we were nasty about it. We didn't do the verbal shakedown of the debtor over and over; that's never going to get you the car. We had morally-questionable tactics we employed. We had advanced databases for background checks that are much more thorough than even the sophisticated ones you find on the Internet these days. We had credit reports and we would sometimes call their other creditors and shared information. You'd be amazed at how many credit card companies were more than happy to give information on where they'd used their card in the last few days and anywhere that was a routine charge. Often the debtor was defaulting or behind on payments with them and we got info from them because we would give them our information when we found the debtor. It was an exchange deal. We used number spoofers for calling whoever it was we were trying to get information from. We used mailouts to the last known addresses or sometimes relatives so they could pass it on, offering free things and referenced personalized information in the letter so it didn't appear as if it was a random mailing. We called vindictive exes who were more than happy to tell us everything about the debtor's life so we could intercept them somewhere and, usually, we'd mail them coupons for free fast food in exchange for discretion. You'd also freak out if you knew how many people in government offices were willing to give information on a debtor's employment situation, especially if the debtor was having their wages garnished. If we were particularly desperate - the bank's commission to the repo company got higher as time went on but the longer you wait, the further the debtor goes, so we never sat on accounts. Plus they'd accumulate. - we'd do even nastier things. Like, call the co-signer or close relative, pretend to be a clinic or a doctor, and tell whoever answered - or left the message - that we received the test results and were legally required to obtain a list of people from the debtor and they needed to contact us immediately. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what that could be about. So, yeah...we were scumbags.

Back to my original story:

So I did what any other woman scorned would do. I hunted that motherfucker down.

After working for an hour or so for a couple of days, I found him. I was working with a lot less but was still successful and giddy over it. I hadn't lost my touch!

I had a few Crown & diets and sat down to write a letter. Anonymously, of course. If he remembered doing it (who could forget?), he'd know who I was. If he didn't, he might rack his brain trying to figure it out.

I began by asking him if he remembered raping me and even gave him the hint by telling him when it happened. I spent a paragraph or two explaining the reason behind why he was getting the letter. Next, I outlined the events of the rape in excruciating detail. Last, I spent a couple of paragraphs explaining why I never reported him, how I feel now, and the impact the rape had on my life then and now.

There are three possible outcomes in the arrival of the letter. One, he could find it himself and deal with it in whatever way. Two, his wife finds it and has a lot of questions, some weird emotions, and there could be far-reaching consequences. Third, his kid could find the letter and either open themselves, like nosy teens tend to do, or maybe leave it in a common area for a parent to pick up and open. Extra points if both parents are present - and maybe the kid - when it's opened. I mean, it's clearly a personal letter with no return address, making it pretty curious. So...

I feel good about it. I took pictures of each page so I could remember what I wrote. I messaged them to one of my good friends and she told me it made her cry. I tried to read it a couple days later and I couldn't get past the first paragraph. I was seriously disturbed and agitated by it so I had to stop.

Sometimes I think it really did make me heal. Doctors always tell you, "Oh, write a letter and then throw it away. It'll help!" Uh, no. I've done it many, many times and, trust me when I say that, no, it didn't help. Knowing that the target of your pain is being forced to deal with it, at least for a few sentences before they freeze and toss it, provides a feeling of freedom that simply writing a pointless letter can never provide. My current doctor said she'd like to read it if that's okay with me. She said she thinks we need to talk about and evaluate at least one of my situations but I'm just going to say that I think she's more curious than wanting to be helpful.

There was no doubt in my mind that he wouldn't try to track ME down and he hasn't. I bet $100 he doesn't even remember my last name. Even if he does, what's he going to do? Be mad? Threaten me? He needs to be glad I didn't use any of the other information I found to notify his wife, employer, and parents directly. I'll be sure to point that out if the situation ever arises.

So, that's the story. I'm not ashamed, I'm not sorry, and a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders and my heart. Whatever ramifications he has to deal with now is still considerably less than what I've gone through. If any of y'all are dealing with something and you feel you need some kind of concrete action for closure, go ahead and send me a message. I'll do what I can and provide advice - but it will never be illegal just so you know.

So, today, I'm a little less...
 

STFU Christine Blasey Ford, Part II

Dear Christine:

(Can I call you Christine? Because I feel as if I know you a little more now.)

I remember so vividly sliding into the tub, slowly, silently, but yearning to remove all he'd left behind.

I was young. I don't remember how young; probably 16 given some following events. At the time 16 didn't seem young and, even now, given the life I was forced to lead, it doesn't really seem young to me now. But I know how others see it.

One of my good friends - a guy I went out with twice a week to go to play pool with at the cheapest place in town - came over to my parents' house one evening. My parents were pretty lenient with my friends coming over. I worked the graveyard shift and, coincidentally so did my friend "P," who was coming over. The basic rules were that 1) we couldn't wake up my parents coming into the house which was crazy-hard because their bedroom was in the main hallway and they didn't close their door (by design? probably. my dad blamed it on the stress put on the air conditioner. heh) or while we were watching videos [we had no cable, so it was VHS or network] and acting like morons, and 2) we stayed in the TV room, which was probably the 3rd bedroom in the back of the house before the previous owners added on an additional 2 bedrooms in the back; one of which was mine and the other was for guests, so it was like a weird suburban rotunda you had to pass through to get to the other rooms. And it did have a door between the TV room and the main hall but, again, suburbs. Thin veneer wood on either side, totally empty in between. Obviously, like every single other time someone came over when my parents were sleeping, we shut the TV room door as well as my bedroom door. We never wanted to watch TV; we wanted to listen to music which, for some reason, you couldn't do too successfully in the TV room without pissing off my father. And I don't think it was just because he had something against punk music.

My friend...ugh. It sounds so "you deserve it" now, but ALL of my friends were older. When I was in 8th grade or a freshman, all of my friends were seniors or in college already. So, this guy, "P," just turned 21 on this evening. As in, it was his birthday. I told my parents about it beforehand because we had open communication about my friends, and they had no issue with him coming over, so long as we abided by the 2 Rules. He was upset because he'd had a party at a 21+ venue (which is why I wasn't there, and I knew about it) and only about 3 of his friends had shown up. He had about 5 bottles of Korbel champagne left over, one of which he brought with him to my place. You could tell he'd been expecting something decent because he had his pitch-black dyed hair gelled out into spikes to resemble Sid Vicious.

Now, I don't remember my parents ever having a discussion about drinking alcohol in the house because, honestly, my emetophobia is legit out of control. Is, as in,  that early age of my life, spending time with nothing but binge-drinkers, I thought all alcohol consumption resulted in vomiting. So, no. Just no.

But you know what? He convinced me that there was hardly any alcohol in champagne, that it was mostly just sparkling white grape juice and I could drink the whole bottle and still drive a car. That's why they always served it celebrations; so it wouldn't mess people up too much to drive home. And I had a car, so...I believed him.

We split the bottle. I got two glasses from the kitchen and we split it. We didn't chug it; we had lots of good conversation and gossip before I started to feel weird. My mistake? I told him I felt weird.

He laughed and shoved my shoulder. I was sitting on the floor and he was sitting on my bed which was just box springs and a mattress on the floor. I almost fell backward. I remember catching myself with my arm and kind of twisting my wrist because I hadn't expected him to pop me that hard. But I didn't fall backward. We were laughing. I told him I was getting really tired and he should probably go home.

He jumped on me and pushed me down onto the floor. He grabbed both of my arms and held them out straight over my head. I kept laughing and struggled. He wasn't laughing anymore.

That's when he grabbed both of my wrists in one hand - I only weighed about 70-something pounds and I had (and still have) tiny wrists.

With his free hand, he pulled down my PJ pants a bit, then used a leg to remove them entirely. The sad thing is, I wasn't even panicking. I should have been. I should have been freaking out over the fact that boundaries were crossed and it happened so quickly that I didn't even have time to fend him off but, honestly, I was impaired and I was trying to process what was going on and before that happened, it was too late.

He had the faculties enough to joke and ask me if I had a condom at the precise moment he thrust himself into me and laughed. He saw me open my mouth. Was I going to gasp for breath? Scream? Say something directly to him? I don't remember. The room started wobbling from side to side and I was starting to get really hot and, thinking back on it, it seems as if I remember (or maybe it's just how I see it now) floating above myself, watching the whole thing take place from a completely different mental perspective even though my physical self was most definitely in the moment, with him on top of me.

I do remember fighting him as best I could which really meant nothing. I mean, I was tiny and although "P" wasn't a big guy, he was tall and could keep me pinned down by weight distribution alone.

In what seemed like only seconds after it began, he flopped his sweaty torso - even through his black t-shirt and through my thin grey one - onto mine and I could feel the clamminess soaking through onto my chest, and he began grunting and thrusting even harder. I wasn't a virgin; I knew what that meant. Even in the unfamiliar state I was in, I remember panic setting in. What if he just got me pregnant?!

My stomach started to churn. I started getting even hotter but my face was freezing cold. I couldn't tell if "P" was near my bedroom door or near my closet. I couldn't even tell which direction I was lying in. The room was spinning and my vision was blurred. I couldn't understand how this disorientation happened so quickly. One minute I felt fine but was just a little tired and, then...this.

As I lay there, I knew I was going to be sick, I was just trying to judge how much time I had. Despite my phobia, I've always had the incredibly useful trait of being able to tell that I'm going to vomit about 15 minutes beforehand and I have always been able to hold it for a few if need be. Given the fact that I wasn't even really sure I could get up, that was a good thing. I was able to grab my boxers as I saw "P" adjusting his skin-tight black denim jeans.

By the time I managed to get all of my clothing comfortable and remind myself not to throw up just yet, "P" was gone. I didn't get it. Within a few confusing seconds, I came to realize that he'd been really quiet and left through the front door and I was alone.

Still aware of my stomach's protests, I stood up. Semen rolled down my leg. It was warm and thick, skipping the first bit of my thigh and finding its way to right above my knee. I was concentrating more on that than I was on my stomach as I made my way to my bathroom which, unfortunately, in the main hallway outside the minimally safe confines of the TV room and door.

All I wanted to do was to get the monster's cum off of my body - and I knew it was IN me too, and it had to go. I began filling the bathtub with water as I went to the toilet area and wiped off as much as I could from my leg. That's when I gagged. Nothing came out. I don't remember how many times I heaved, but nothing came out. I am NOT a silent puker, so I was very surprised when my mother didn't come in to see what was wrong. There is no way in the world they didn't hear it - especially my light-sleeping dad - but nobody came. And even if they did, what was I going to say? "I got drunk when I thought I wouldn't and a 21-year old guy had sex with me when I didn't want him to?"

The tub was full and the water was hot but not steaming. I got in and just laid there, opening and closing my legs at the knees, hoping that I could flush his violation out with some kind of suction or something. I'd done it before, just not for this reason. I watched as milky, cloudy puffs filled the space between my knees. I was going to be sick.

Soaking wet and naked I jumped out of the tub and vomited violently into the toilet, multiple times.

I dried off but didn't unplug the tub. I knew it would make too much noise as if I hadn't made enough already. I slipped on my robe and padded down the hall towards the kitchen. I pulled out 2 slices of bread. I just needed something bland in my stomach. Even with the glass of water I'd poured, the bread was mealy and it was hard to get it to break down inside my mouth.

That's where my memory ends. I know I went back into my room because the next morning I woke up in bed, fully clothed, with the worst headache and a sore throat.

I'm not going to lie. In between paragraphs, I tracked down his parents' names through our county's tax assessor's office. Then I did some more Internet searching and found both "P's" address as well as his parents'. It's in a state nowhere near here. What am I going to do with this information? Maybe just send a letter. To him? To his parents? Undecided. I think an anonymous "You raped me, do you remember," or another simple, anonymous "your son raped me on his 21st birthday" letter might be appropriate. But, as with everything on the Internet, you have to quadruple check to make sure the information you have is up to date, so this is something I will continue tomorrow. For once in months, I'm actually tired - even though it's 3am - and I should seize this opportunity to get sleep. It's been too many nights of tossing and turning and watching the blue skies start to peek through my blinds.

Tomorrow, asshole. I remember your name, and tomorrow I will find you and mail you a handwritten reminder of what you did. I'll keep it to a page in length, but you WILL get it.


. .

STFU, Christine Blasey Ford, Part 1 of 4

I don't care how crude this sounds. I don't care if it sounds heartless, or like I'm not 'standing up for a sister." Fuck her. You know why? THIS is why.

She says: "Kavanaugh physically pushed me into a bedroom as I was headed for a bathroom up a short stair well from the living room. They locked the door and played loud music..." "...Kavanaugh was on top of me..." "...They both laughed as Kavanaugh tried to disrobe me in their highly inebriated state." "After a few attempts to get away, I was able to take this opportune moment to get up and run across to a hallway bathroom. I locked the bathroom door behind me."

And? So what? She had some guys jack with her at a party? One guy 'tried to disrobe [her]?' Excuse me while I take some time in my safe space to prevent myself from being triggered by her traumatic experience.

I don't know what kind of rich, charmed white bitch life she'd been living, but THAT experience wasn't sexual assault; it was guys being dicks who needed their asses kicked because they did something inappropriate.

She says, "I have received medical treatment regarding the assault." For what, exactly? The fact that someone actually violated her comfort zone? Fuck her. Fuck her and her "trauma." 

Shall I address this in chronological order, or in order of severity? Oh, let's do it chronologically. This one's bad but, in my opinion, it gets worse so...let's do this in a series of posts. This will be "STFU Christine #1."

Junior high. Probably 12 years old. My school bus route picked up kids from a super-shitty part of the neighborhood as well as the mostly-shitty part where I lived. On the way home, my stop was last. The worst apartment complex was right before my stop, so little tiny 75-pound blonde me was the only white girl on the bus anyway but, in the afternoons, I was the only white kid period and had to endure the shittiest of shitty kids when the bus was virtually empty because only my stop was left.

I'm not trying to make this about race, but it is. As the solitary member of the minority, I was a target. I always had been. My parents knew things were bad - not HOW bad because I kept almost all of it to myself - but we just COULD not afford to move because the neighborhood was SO shitty that they would have lost their asses trying to sell the house.

One rainy day, I was on the bus headed home. I always just sat wherever I could because that's how it worked. As the bus emptied, I always began to move up seats closer to the driver. On this particular day, it wasn't going to happen.

There was this black kid, "J," who was a few years older than me, who had failed two grades anyway so was two years older than everyone else in his class in 8th grade. He was sketchy. Ugly. Crude. Clothes always smelled musty but, even at my young age I was compassionate enough to realize that not everybody was lucky enough to have a washer and dryer in their home, or the chance to pull out the wet clothes from the washer immediately after (we lived in a stupid hot, humid climate and clothes could turn sour fast if the w/d was outside.), or that they even necessarily had the money to dry the clothes. I lived in the ghetto. I had poor friends. I knew the deal. So I never judged him on his mustiness. I judged him on his behavior. His "I have to be loud to be the center of attention" behavior. His "if I cuss all the time it will shock people into paying attention to me." As such, he was an asshole in my book. But we had no interaction, so it didn't matter.

Until we did, and it did.

The third to the last kids got dropped off. There were only about 4 kids left on the bus. I was about to move up when "J" grabbed my backpack from my seat as I was starting to move. 

"I ain't giving this to you yet. Come sit over here." He motioned at the seat across the aisle from him with his golf umbrella. We were near the back of the bus but I looked toward the driver and could see his face in the visor/mirror thing they had so they could monitor us. He wasn't looking up into it. I was standing up and moving while the bus was moving, but the driver said nothing.

"J" began insulting my body. Telling me that I didn't look old enough to be in junior high because I was so small and all I had were "mosquito bites." At that point, he took the tip of his umbrella, shoved it under the hem of my shirt, began to lift my shirt, and that's when I jumped back toward the window of my seat. It didn't matter. He was big, his arms were long, and his umbrella was long as well. He began poking at my yet-to-be-developed breasts with his umbrella. I was still wearing what I guess is a "training" bra (training me for what?) so I wasn't completely bare, but he just poked at me. And continued berating my mosquito bites. 

Even though I was a strong personality, typically outspoken and some might even say bossy, I said nothing to him. I was scared. Very scared. And I had reason to be.

[I'm skipping quote marks from here on out. You get the point.]

He began talking about how he knew I could never get a man with tiny titties like mine, so I must still be a tight little virgin. He raked the metal tip of his umbrella down my chest toward my crotch. I tried to back up more but he was on the aisle edge of his seat and I was up against the window of my seat. I turned to face forward. I started coughing loudly and obnoxiously, hoping the driver would look up to make sure I wasn't dying. But he didn't. And the other kids didn't either.

In the blink of an eye, J jumped across the aisle, grabbed my arm, and threw me down onto the floor of the bus. I was between two seats on my side, he was in the aisle. I yelped, but I'm guessing nobody saw or, if they did, they didn't do anything about it. I mean, I'll be honest; like, every kid was scared to death of this asshole.

I was on the dirty rubber floor of the bus, scrambling to get back up onto the seat, but he had me by the ankle. He grabbed the cuff of my pants and yanked. Hard. It caught me off guard, lost my balance, and fell onto my back. I was still in that rapidly growing phase so my mother was insistent on elastic waistbands. That was a detriment on this day. My pants started to come down, I was squirming trying to keep my ass in them, and he laid his umbrella on my seat and grabbed the cuff of my other pants leg. 

I KNOW I made a noise. I know I had to have yelped again, or screamed, or something. I mean, even J was laughing so you would think someone would have looked to see what was going on. If they did, they didn't do a thing.

With my pants pulled down to my knees and futile struggling to grab them, J started talking about my tight white virgin pussy and was running the metal tip of his umbrella up my thigh. He got to the leg of my underwear and shoved the tip of his umbrella under the elastic. He was still laughing and telling me how much of a rich baby white bitch I was and how dare I be so stuck up that I never talked to him on the bus.

He began just randomly poking around with the tip of the umbrella. 

HOW COULD WE NOT BE AT HIS STOP YET?!

Because it was Houston and it floods and if there's even a moderate amount of rain, the water runs to the right lane and collects in the gutter along the curb. School buses at the time were required to stay in the right lane, which meant that, on this day, it was taking literally forever. Of course.

The worst pain I'd ever felt in my life up to that point was shooting up into my body from my genitals. He just kept poking and poking around with that umbrella tip until he found an area that didn't give resistance. 

Yes, I was a virgin but I was 12, had received sex ed both from my parents and from school, and had poked around on myself enough to know what he was doing and what he was invading. And it hurt like a motherfucker. Not only was the pointed metal tip of the umbrella inside my delicate female parts, but the leg of my panties was pushing on the umbrella, causing it to kind of push to one side inside of me. I could feel the tearing. 

I was scared to death to fight back because he was big, strong, and a position to hurt me even worse. How would my insides feel if I moved even an inch? And he was scary as fuck. I will never forget the spark in his eyes with the whites that were more yellow and bloodshot than white, or the way his dry lips curved back in a crooked smile over crooked, gapped teeth.

I know I screamed out and I was already crying. There is literally no way that, out of about 5 people on the bus, not one of them - especially the adult - didn't see something wrong going on. Nobody intervened.

It probably didn't last any longer than 15 seconds, but it felt like 15 minutes. Then he just stopped.

He grabbed the tip of his umbrella, ran his hand over it, then wiped it on his jeans.

I pulled my pants up and cowered into the corner of the seat leg and the wall. He just kept smiling. And laughing.

 A few moments later we pulled into the circle drive of his apartments. The bus came to a stop and, laughing, he threw my backpack at me while I was huddled up. "You stupid white bitch...you like this nigger fucking you?" He literally cackled and walked down the aisle to the door.

I KNOW someone heard him say that. I cried as he exited the bus and got back up into my seat. I didn't even move forward this time. I just pulled my legs up to my chest as I sat sideways on the seat and tried not to sniffle too loudly. 

There was one kid left on the bus and the driver, who were both looking back at me after J got off the bus. No one said a word. We went another 15 minutes in complete silence before my stop. It hurt to move. My body was sore from being yanked around and falling. My vagina was sore because J tore me up so badly. But we got to my stop and I - along with the other kid - stood up to exit the bus. 

I got to the door and the driver to whom I'd always been so polite merely said, "See you in the morning." I turned around, still softly crying, but couldn't look him in the face. I looked at the collar of his shirt. It was a Polo-style, color-appropriate, district-provided shirt, buttoned all the way to the top. There was a little bit of light brown chest hair poking out of the top, despite the high neckline. I felt nauseous and began to dry heave. He didn't say anything but just sat there, hand on the grip of the mechanism to close the door as I turned and ran/stumbled/fell out of the bus. I landed on my hands on the concrete and scraped them up. I saved the knees of my pants. My backpack fell off and I heard my Thermos crack. It soaked up the water on the sidewalk and, later I found out, warped the covers to one of my textbooks, which I got in trouble for at the end of the year.

Mom was almost always home when I got there, so I had to pull myself together fast. It had stopped raining, so she wasn't parked at the end of the street to pick me up, but she was probably still at home. 

I couldn't tell anybody what happened. My dad was already bitter about the house situation and the danger I was in every day. He had already had to "handle" some incidents that had happened to me in the past. They weren't NEARLY as bad as what had just gone down.

I sat on the covered porch of a vacant house two doors down before I'd reach my house. I knew I only had a few minutes to get it together or Mom would know something was wrong. We'd already been delayed because of high water. I decided for sure that I was going to keep it all to myself. Nobody else thought it was important enough to do anything about - not even an adult who, I was pretty sure, was supposed to protect me. My dad, however, was the polar opposite. If he knew and found out who it was, he'd likely kill that kid and end up in prison. Being the breadwinner and my daddy, I knew our lives would end if he left.

When I went to the bathroom later that afternoon, my panties were bloody. I panicked. If I put them in the hamper, my mom would see it for sure. Although I knew what a period was, my family didn't get theirs that early. It was usually around 14, so I was sure she wouldn't assume that. Plus it would be days later when she did laundry and would wonder what I'd been doing for feminine hygiene all that time.

I shoved them into my small gym pouch. I planned on throwing them in the giant trash can in the locker room during PE when we dressed out the next day. 

The only problem was that I was terrified to get back on the bus. As is typical, I had crazy anxiety for a few days and told my parents I didn't feel good and didn't want to go to school. They bought that for one day. The next day, it was a hissy fit about wanting someone to drive me to school and come pick me up because I didn't want to ride the bus. My parents knew what kinds of kids were on the bus with me so they basically demanded to know what had happened. I whined and bitched to buy time to think about what I was going to tell them. I ended up just minimizing the entire thing by telling them that there was a group of older kids who were bullying me. After I'd reassured my dad that nobody had hurt me (he would have killed them), I heard the whole lecture about you can't let them get to you, ignore them, you know the insults they throw at you aren't true, you're better than they are and they're mean to you because there's something missing inside of them, etc.

I never told anybody about it until I was about 26 and was dating the man I thought I was going to marry. I'd seen psychiatrists for awhile but kept it to myself even then. But my man was understanding and gentle and held me while I shook and curled up into a ball against his chest.

And when that was over, it was over. I'd released it. The shame I'd felt disappeared. I've given the other important men in my life a very short, concise sentence about what had happened, usually consisting of nothing more than, "When I was in junior high, I was sexually assaulted by a guy I hated who used an umbrella to violate me." And that was it.

Did I deal with it? I'm not sure. Did I unknowingly take that trauma, pack it up into a little compartment in my brain and file it away in the archives as a way to cope with the pain? I'm really not sure. I've never really cried, I've never really talked through it, and this is the first time the full story's ever been told. I'm fully aware that I am affected by a case of PTSD but I'm not sure it was this sole incident that caused it. It could be that this, along with Parts 2, 3, & 4 worked together to make me feel crazy.

So. This privileged, rich, white woman WITH A DEGREE IN PSYCHOLOGY wants to whine and complain about how HARD it's been for her to cope with a drunk guy jumping on her drunk ass and *attempting* to remove her clothing. Again, to Christine Blasey Ford, I say fuck you. You have NO FUCKING IDEA what "trauma" is. You have no idea what "sexual assault" is. Get outta here with that shit. Yes, I'm sure it was scary and nothing she'd had to deal with before. But still. Fuck you. 

I'm sure you'll just love Part 2, although Part 3 is where it really picks up. Part 4 is kind of dull compared to the others but is probably much more in line with what the majority of women go through, is probably more relatable to most, but is still a violation and abuse of trust.

Until then...


I am...