The Worst of Online Dating: “Wanna Bang & Have Mutual Meals?” PART DEUX

You may remember a recent post about a particularly brazen gentlemen who recently sent me a message about becoming fuck buddies…  I then sent him a super weird reply.  Well, he wrote back!

He really believed he could turn it around.  Now, that’s confidence.

Original message:

Hello,

I’m a full time student now doing masters, I work 40+ hrs at the Hosptial, and work occasionally in between that. So non-commitment sexual encounters with possible mutual meals is all I ever have time for this semester . As far as in the sheets go, I’m not turned on just by the mundane, gentle sex. I enjoy it time to time as a way to break up the rougher side. I’m definitely turned on the most by knowledge , intelligence and beauty which you seem to have all. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, I’ll answer anything.
Also I promise to keep things discreet .

Thanks,
Gary

My gross response:

Hey Gary,

While I am super-impressed that you have so much going on. I mean, I just have two jobs, two volunteers positions, classes, workshops, and self-respect, I can’t believe you’ve managed to stay awake long enough to write this charming message. I mean, my god, that’s impressive. If I had a job and some classes, I’d only be able to do that and sleep. Look at you, making time to troll the internet for women to screw.

It’s always nice when a complete stranger sends me a message that hints to their sexual proclivities. How unusual that you enjoy both slow and fast sex? I’ve never met a man who enjoyed different kinds of sex. You must be really deep. Personally, I’m only into completely silent, open-eyed, well-lit intercourse. I also enjoy wearing colonial dresses when I fornicate; it makes it more complicated, but it’s totally worth it.

It sounds like you are definitely turned on by intelligence. Sex is the best way for a person to express their intelligence. Before I put on my colonial sex dress, I usually give my potential sex partner a quiz on world history, algebra, and poetic forms. I only proceed with my straight-A students.

Here are some questions:
1. Has this ever worked?
2. How many women have you successfully banged? Please provide numbers for women you met online vs. women you met in person.
3. Why bother making a profile when you could just go to Rick’s or Necto?
4. What about my profile made you think I’d want to be your fuck buddy?
5. What’s your favorite color?
6. Can I call you Gare-Bear?
7. Can I please, please, please have your phone number? I can’t wait to come over!

All my love,
Ryan Gosling

His NEW Response:

At least it got u talking! It does have the scope to develop into something meaningful and I am pretty flexible , at the same time I am not the one to keep flooding your inbox. I can definitely predict that you would make a great writer and wish to apologize for offending you. Following are true answers to your questions:

1. Yes.
2. Met online: 30ish vs. met in person 10ish.
3. favorite color is blue.
4. I found you really pretty and wanted to try my luck, you got to try to succeed , right?
5. phone number: 313-***-****
6. you can call me whatever you want.

Best wishes,
Gary

My NEW Response:

Nope. I’m good.

His final, very annoyed response:

Hey! At you should say it in a way a writer ought to put it. You must not be as good as you think.
Simply saying no is no fun .

The Worst of Online Dating: “Wanna Bang & Have Mutual Meals?”

Well, here we are.  Back to online dating.  Yikes.

While it does seem to work pretty well, online dating comes with some major annoyances, and beautifully hilarious encounters.  Women have a real advantage on these sites because men of all ages want to sleep with women in their 20s.  That means most messages are from men I have no interest in meeting, and who have very little in common with me.  Most messages just say, “how are you?” or “your beautiful.  what’s up?” and so on.

By the way, the “your” in “your beautiful” is how most of them are written.  Very few people have figured out that “your” and “you’re” are not at all the same.  

Basically, it’s mostly fine.  I don’t respond very often, but sometimes the particularly offensive messages inspire to write back.  Sometimes I just draft messages that I dream of writing, but don’t actually hit send.  Here’s my question: should I send them?

Below, I’ve sent along a beautifully bold message I received just today…  Should I send my super-weird response?  Should I just let it die?

————————————-

His beautiful message:

Hello,
I’m a full time student now doing masters, I work 40+ hrs at the Hosptial, and work occasionally in between that. So non-commitment sexual encounters with possible mutual meals is all I ever have time for this semester . As far as in the sheets go, I’m not turned on just by the mundane, gentle sex. I enjoy it time to time as a way to break up the rougher side. I’m definitely turned on the most by knowledge , intelligence and beauty which you seem to have all. If you have any questions you’d like to ask , I’ll answer anything.
Also I promise to keep things discreet .
Thanks,
Gary

My gross response:

Hey Gary,

While I am super-impressed that you have so much going on. I mean, I just have two jobs, two volunteers positions, classes, workshops, and self-respect, I can’t believe you’ve managed to stay awake long enough to write this charming message. I mean, my god, that’s impressive. If I had a job and some classes, I’d only be able to do that and sleep. Look at you, making time to troll the internet for women to screw.

It’s always nice when a complete stranger sends me a message that hints to their sexual proclivities. How unusual that you enjoy both slow and fast sex? I’ve never met a man who enjoyed different kinds of sex. You must be really deep. Personally, I’m only into completely silent, open-eyed, well-lit intercourse. I also enjoy wearing colonial dresses when I fornicate; it makes it more complicated, but it’s totally worth it.

It sounds like you are definitely turned on by intelligence. Sex is the best way for a person to express their intelligence. Before I put on my colonial sex dress, I usually give my potential sex partner a quiz on world history, algebra, and poetic forms. I only proceed with my straight-A students.

Here are some questions:
1. Has this ever worked?
2. How many women have you successfully banged? Please provide numbers for women you met online vs. women you met in person.
3. Why bother making a profile when you could just go to Rick’s or Necto?
4. What about my profile made you think I’d want to be your fuck buddy?
5. What’s your favorite color?
6. Can I call you Gare-Bear?
7. Can I please, please, please have your phone number? I can’t wait to come over!

All my love,
Ryan Gosling

Patty and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I felt invigorated this morning; I actually got up and worked out.  I’ve heard that many adults do that in the mornings, and it’s not as fun as eating cheese.  Still, I did work out.  In my adventures, which included a brief and slow run, I went to my car to grab a CD (yes, I still buy them) I bought for a friend.  To my dismay, the door handle was broken.  Until I can find the part, figure out how to take the panel off, and replace it, I’ll be climbing in from the passenger’s side.

After that fun discovery, I took a shower, did my hair, went downstairs to pick out shoes… That’s when I saw a steady stream of water coming down from the ceiling of my closet.  Nearly all my clothing was soaking wet, multiple items were ruined, and it smelled great (just kidding).

I started pulling clothes of the rod, and piling them in the next room.  I ran upstairs to grab pots and pans to catch the drips.  I removed every shoe, shirt, skirt, dress, box, that one stuffed beagle, and my carved wiseman who looks like Jafar.  I exhausted my towel reserves and paper towels while sopping up gallons of questionably-colored water.  I individually cleaned every damn shoe.  I did hours of laundry.  It was so fun… no.

In the midst of the mess, I called my landlord and he assured me that it had “never happened before” which totally helps me in this situation.  I mentioned that it was convenient that the last maintenance they’d done in my apartment had left sawdust all over my closet.  Isn’t it nice that they failed to clean up earlier in preparation of this coming disaster.

For the next few hours, I watched water leak from the ceiling, then inexplicably and inconceivably coming out of the floor.  Because this is such a high-quality apartment, the floors are uneven and so are the ceilings.  The linoleum seemed to be soaking in the water, then rejected it for being far too natural to live in the horrid floor.  Even the spiders started to run away.

When the landlord and his “boy” arrived, sans plumber, they first decided to paint one of the garage doors brown.  They never use tape around here, it’s all just nearly straight.  Upon sight, he forced me to hug him, called me “sweetheart” and said “oooooooohhhh” about seven times.  I cannot fully capture how intensely I dislike them; all the bitch in me rises up in my throat and begs to be thrust at their puny little minds.  I held back.  I needed to go buy more detergent anyway.

When I returned, they had managed to open the ceiling and promised to go get a real plumber and real parts.  I inspected the whole in the ceiling while they were out – so many spider carcasses!  Yay!

The plumber arrived, with the landlord and his boy, and they proceeded to run up and down the stairs, call me “sweetheart”, and not understand plumbing.  When they finally realized that the issue was an incorrectly installed fixture in the tub.  My landlord, being a creative deflector type, told me it was because I hung a sponge from the faucet.  He said that the water was deflecting there and going into the crack.  If I hadn’t used that sponge, no water would have gotten into the cracks and holes.  Wrong.  Water goes lots of places in showers.  The sponge wasn’t there very frequently.  I use the shower, not the bath, so the water comes out of a different spout – it’s amazing.  That’s not even a sponge, it’s shower puff, dammit.

The plumber explained that the issue was a wrongly-installed part and not the (f’ing) “sponge”.

My landlord literally said, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about this.  We’ve taken care of it.”

I repeated it back in my grown-uppiest voice, and then said, “You know that I’m a grown woman, right?  I’ll be sure to not ‘worry my pretty little head’.  I’d hate for it to get too full with ideas.  That’s for men!”

He stared blankly.  His boy laughed and appreciated the anger I was holding in.

I escaped to my computer where I was clearly working, when my landlord decided to start a very personal conversation with me.  Mostly, he was defending how great he thinks this place is, but he also wanted to push his fun opinions on me.  He asked about the guy I’d been dating when I moved in, I said that we were no longer together.  He then gave me tons of great advice.  He asked what happened, and how, and why, and so much more.  I said, “Yeah… I don’t want to talk about that with you.”  Then, it got weirder.

He said, “That’s too bad.  He seemed really successful.  You should really ask him to reconsider.  A girl would be lucky to have a successful man like that.  He seemed nice too, and he was pretty good-looking.  You should really ask him to get back together with you.  Seriously.”

With big and crazy eyes, I replied, “Wow.  That is so far over the line.  You need to stop talking.”

He said, “Oh, I’m sorry.  I just don’t want a nice girl like you to end up alone.”

That’s when I asked him to leave.

In conclusion, I hate this apartment, I hate my landlord, and I hate sexist norms about women needing men.  I just wanted to not have wet clothes.  I just wanted to have the whole in my ceiling plugged.  I just wanted them to pay for dry cleaning.  I just wanted to go to work.

Great.  What a great day.

We Need to Talk About Whiteness

Lots of white people want that identity to be boring, lifeless, and almost hidden. Lots of white people want to not talk about whiteness because they think that white privilege isn’t worth talking about. They think that focusing on other races – the ones suffering from this privilege – are the real place to effect change.

We can’t make a change unless we change whiteness too. Whiteness may be the privileged position, but that means it has more history, more substance than we’re talking about.

Race means a whole hell of a lot in America. We might not want it to mean so much, but it does.

Whiteness isn’t nothing. Whiteness dominates our societal “norms” and our visions of America. For too long, being white has been the default. We need to challenge this. We need to challenge the language of whiteness. We need to use “white” as a real, meaningful term instead of a default.

What does it mean?

Too many white people think they can describe someone without race when they’re white, but fail to do the same for Black, Asian, Hispanic, or any perceived “other.” Too many times, I’ve heard a story where the person’s appearance includes a whispered, “Black” or a strangely, almost mimed “Asian.” I’ve never heard someone whisper that so-and-so was … white. But a lot of so-and-sos are white.

What does it mean? Why are white people scared of saying that someone was black, and unaware of marking whiteness?

Racial-profiling is real. It is pervasive. It is often subconscious. It is ruining and ending lives.

I am white. I am a woman. I am short and rarely, if ever, a perceived threat.

If I lock myself out of my car, strangers will assist me, police will believe me – no one will accuse me of anything.

If a member of my neighborhood watch saw me walking alone at night, hoodie or no hoodie, heavy bags or empty arms, smile or menacing glare, that person would likely ask if I needed anything. They wouldn’t ask me what in the hell I was doing there?

If I walked up to a stranger’s home and knocked on the door, they would not fear me. They might offer me a phone, assistance with a flat tire, or even give me directions. At worst, they would think I might want to sell them something or talk about Jesus. They would not shoot me.

I am the perceived victim of all altercations. I’ve been in bar fights and street scuffles. I have always, always been the person others offer to help. The men involved has always been assumed guilty. (In these situations, I perceive the men I fought or argued with to be at fault too, but the strangers around us never questioned me.) When I have felt threatened in public and private, all outsiders involved have sided with me and offered me help.

I am not Trayvon Martin. I will never be murdered for looking suspicious.

What does it mean, I ask? What can we learn?

What can we CHANGE?

No one is surprised when I speak with eloquence. No one is surprised by my successes.

If you are white and reading this, I challenge you. I challenge you to not see this as something from which you are free. You are part of this. Even if you have never said, “Wow. You speak so well.” Even if you think you would never profile someone, assume someone’s intent, or suspect someone based on their race. I challenge you to examine your privilege. You are privileged. You cannot deny that. I challenge you to watch yourself. I challenge you to watch others. I challenge you to challenge racism – even when it’s subtle, unclear, or seemingly “harmless.” I challenge you to challenge your friends – of all colors. I challenge you to challenge your parents and elders when they use language, terms, or stereotypes. Yes, it’s nice to think that they just inherited language or don’t know that certain things are problematic. But, it’s not okay. Challenge them. Challenge them and educate them. I challenge you to make a real change in this society. I challenge you to expect more.

We all – all people – need to do better. We need to challenge every slur, every little joke, every tiny detail of our understandings of race. Racism is real. Racism is killing – literally killing – our children.

Being white isn’t meaningless. That privilege is so much more than history. That privilege walks with me into job interviews, down streets at night, in the aisle of every supermarket, convenience store, and department store. That privilege drives with me, walks with me, talks with me.

We have to change something.

What does it mean? How do we change it?

Let’s start with words.

*****************************************

More to consider:

I feel like we need to start thinking about race across a spectrum. The black/white divide we always get totally obscures other people and groups (Latino/as, Asians, Native Americans and other indigenous folks, etc.). It is truly problematic to me that white is the default for so many; we should also investigate how deeply that runs.

Also, asking people to think about whiteness as a category of privilege and taxonomy seems only part of the issue. I feel like we hear a lot about white privilege. We know we have it, but what do we do about it? This is what has always stumped me. How do you actively acknowledge your privilege and, at the same time, avoid being complacent without socially or economically shooting yourself in the foot (which seems to help no one)?

Furthermore, what does it mean to further taxonomize oneself (‘I’m Polish,’ for example) when you’re already white?

Close Listen: Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” Glorifies Rape Culture, Is also Catchy

Oh, Robin Thicke.

Oh, “Blurred Lines.”

“Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke (who, I will admit, is super sexy) is everywhere these days.  The song, upon first and somewhat-distracted listening, is another generic pop song about sex or dancing or something…  It’s really catchy and it’s got some sonic soul.  The aesthetics of the song itself are groovy and cool.  If I hadn’t listened closely, I would probably like this song.

However, taking the time to listen to the lyrics provided me with the sadly not-so-shocking truth: “Blurred Lines” glorifies rape culture, portrays women as objects without agency, knowledge, or power, and suggests a problematic passage of women from one man to another.

Take a listen for yourself.

Wait… Before you do that, we need to talk about the video too.

THE VIDEO

The unrated version is below – very NSFW.  The video features three disaffected models wearing flesh-colored thongs…  As in, ONLY THONGS.  The boobies are out.  The models are sort of dancing.  It’s really rather weird.  Imagine what it was like to film that video.

Oh, so I just walk from side to side not really doing anything while these guys sing?  Okay.  Oh, and I’m naked.  Oh, I get a thong.  Great…

Awkward…

They let her wear clothes (sort of) but turned her into a road, on which they could drive their toys.

These very pretty, young women are strutting around while fully dressed men – all in suits –  perform a smarmy song around them.  It’s uncomfortable and everyone looks uncomfortable.  The women are making an effort to cover themselves some of the time, other times enjoying the bouncing… I guess.

At one point, one of the girls is holding a goat.  They’re wearing 90s shoes, plastic, and other weird stuff.  The men are all being horrible.

Ugh… Here it is.

BLURRED LINES – UNRATED – ROBIN THICKE, PHARRELL WILLIAMS, T.I.

THE LYRICS

The problem continues.

While the song is largely, well, stupid.  It’s a poorly written song about wanting to bang a hot chick.  We’ve all heard a lot of songs about this and many of them are offensive, reinforce stereotypes, and the objectification of women.  Even female artists participate in this a fair amount of the time.  Women often sing about how hot and desirable they are…  Men sing about their dicks.

The thing is, it’s a real problem to talk about women’s behavior meaning they want or need sex.  Consent is what’s sexy.  A girl dancing in a sexy way doesn’t mean she wants or needs to suck some dudes wiener. 

Women are allowed to be sexy, sensual, hot, attractive, pretty, and alluring without sex.  Nothing but consent is consent.  That’s just how it is.  Seeing a woman from across a room and having a feeling that she might “want it” doesn’t mean she really does.

Writing a song that repeats “I know you want it” six times per chorus sends a bad message.  It teaches young men and women that  seeming like they want sex is enough to consent actual sex.  But that’s not okay.  Sex should be something all participants agree to USING WORDS.  Not using eye movements or nods.  Telling men that they can tell when a woman wants sex by the way she dances isn’t helping anyone.  That’s teaching men that they know better.  They know something women don’t know.  Women need men telling them when sex should and will happen.

Except… WRONG.

The Chorus
And that’s why I’m gon’ take a good girl
I know you want it
I know you want it
I know you want it
You’re a good girl
Can’t let it get past me
You’re far from plastic
Talk about getting blasted
I hate these blurred lines
I know you want it
I know you want it
I know you want it
But you’re a good girl
The way you grab me
Must wanna get nasty
Go ahead, get at me

 

“Plus” what, exactly?

ImageThe woman to the far right is Jennie Runk, pictured here in a Glamour spread circa 2009. The intarwebs have been a-buzz because she’s H&M’s new “plus size” swimwear model.

Let’s take another look. Here she is in H&M’s new swimwear shots:

ImageYes, apparently this size 12 woman is “plus-sized.” Excuse me? She looks HEALTHY. AND NORMAL. And pardon me, but I believe one finds size 12 in the “misses” (that is, the NOT plus-sized) section. Since when is this plus-sized? Certainly it’s not the size 0 we normally see, but should we really be calling this “plus”? Plus what? A normal amount of body fat and muscle?

As two women who are not size zeroes, we object. We object first because calling this woman anything other than normal is a gross misstatement. To imply that this woman is somehow heavier than she should be is nonsense. She looks beautiful as-is. I don’t just say this because when I look at most retailers’ models, I want to feed them giant Katz deli sandwiches by the fistful, but because this is the same kind of nonsensical distortion we get with the size zero model. Girls who are Ms. Runk’s size and one higher (14) are shopping in the section that advertises with size zeroes. Women who are size 16 and over are shopping for the clothes Ms. Runk is modeling. Isn’t it time we have just a bit of truth in advertising? If you’re going to sell “plus size” clothing, you need to use a plus size model. A model, that is, who wears size 16 or higher.

Additionally, there needs to be some parity across sizing. I give you the following anecdote: In December, I went looking for a New Year’s Eve dress. I headed to the predictable spots: Forever 21, H&M, etc. H&M was my first stop. My dress size, 95% of the time, is a 6 or 8. I do have a bit of trouble finding dresses that fit because I’ve got a lot of booty and not a lot of booby. But, I digress. I went looking for a black sequin number I saw on the website, and found they only had a size 4 left. I thought to myself, I might as well try this on. It’s realistically only one–maybe two–sizes below me. Maybe it will fit.

And what do you think happened?

Not only did this “dress” not fit over my ass, it hardly fit over my boobs! My tiny boobs! Most women who are my size or a bit smaller have bigger boobs than me! And, on top of that, the notion that this thing was a dress was a joke. Even if I had gotten it to begin fitting over my hips, it wouldn’t have made it much farther because there just wasn’t any more fabric! The damn thing was shirt for a 10 year old being passed off as a dress.

My call, therefore, is for parity in sizing as well as in advertising. I should be looking at models smack dab in the middle of the spectrum of “misses” (that’s a size six, by the way) and smack dab in the middle of “women’s.” And I should be able to reasonably enter a store and try on one or two sizes of clothing and find items that are at least close to fitting. I shouldn’t have to shop at store A as an 8 and then go over to store B and have to buy a 13/14. If we could actually get some real sense of what size we were and stick to it, and saw real humans modeling the clothes we’re buying, we’d significantly reduce the amount of body-hating that goes on.

The Thing About Facebook Is … It’s Free

Kids, tweens, teens, young adults, and man-boys everywhere have been complaining about Facebook like crazy. I am constantly seeing Facebook statuses (irony apparently lost on the vocal complainer) about how Facebook is changing too often and making the profile page look “weird” or “annoying.” People think there are too many ads and too many sponsored links. While I do think it is fine and good to have an opinion – heck, have a lot of opinions – I think we’re missing something here. See, Facebook is free.

When something is free, complaining about it becomes more of an exercise in whiny entitlement than a foray into informed and opinionated public concern. There is no nobility is demanding free stuff.

Some helpful analogies:

  • “Waiter! Waiter! You gave us free bread to eat while we wait for our entrees, but you didn’t bring us jam or soft cheeses or cinnamon butter or sandwich meats! This is outrageous!”
  • “My best friend offered to pick me up from work because my car broke, but she didn’t get to my office until 5:15 PM and I get done at 5:00 PM. It was so rude of her to not leave her job early to pick me up on time!”
  • “I was trying to figure out what song was stuck in my head today, but I could only remember like four of the words. I tried to Google it, but Google RUDELY couldn’t find the song. It took me like two weeks to find out it was a Ke$ha song the whole time.”
  • “There were free hotdogs at work today, but only yellow mustard. It was horrible. I quit on the spot and I’m suing them.”

These analogies might make it clear that complaining about free stuff because it’s not exactly perfect is actually quite absurd. No one protests the candy bowl at their optometrist’s office because they don’t have any pink Starburst left. No one swears when their mechanic gives them a pen without a gripper.

I get that people feel connected to Facebook and depend on it for daily interactions that are very important to them. That connection does not change the fact that Facebook is free service with unlimited storage for photos, free email and instant messaging, free self-promotion, and the free opportunity to control individual online identity. Ultimately, Facebook is pretty awesome and I cannot believe it is still free.

Maybe instead of freaking out about timeline or new messaging formats, people should be thankful that they get to do so much for so little. The ads keep it free. The changes keep investors interested, and they keep it free. Maybe instead of sweating social media, people could just call their friends on the phone. They could even go crazy and actually hang out with each other. It’s worked in the past.

Don’t Call Me “Honey” or “Sweetie” or “Baby”

Unless you are my older relative, a sarcastic friend, or the person I’m dating, you are not allowed to call me petnames.  It’s weird and creepy.  It’s also harassment.

My name is not “Sweetheart.”  My name is not “Honey,” or is this a horribly made movie from 2003 (see the imbd page here: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0322589/). I like to be called by my name when people know my name.
If you don’t know someone’s name, there are still plenty of very appropriate ways to address them.  For example, if you see a young woman in your office and she drops a paper, you can call after her by saying, “Miss!” or “Excuse me, ma’am!” or just say, “Wait!”  All of these are still respectful, appropriate and will get her attention most likely.
If you do know someone’s name, use it.  Do not nickname a co-worker unless you have solid rapport or they nickname you first.  If you are not equals on the corporate ladder or in similar positions in your organization, respect that.  You wouldn’t call your boss a petname, and giving one to an employee below you in rank is highly inappropriate.  In fact, it’s harassment.
If a man at work calls me, “Sweetheart” he is sexually harassing me.
If a woman at works calls me, “Sweetheart” is that also harassment?
YES.
I know it’s well-meaning, and comes from an odd maternal place, but that’s not okay.  There shouldn’t be a double-standard when it comes to harassment.  Continual, repeated instances of disrespectful language, even between women, amount to harassment.  Women can be perpetrators of harassment, of assault, of abuse, and of sexual violence.  Women are not always victims, either.
In my case, these are women who are notably older than me, who are asserting themselves into a maternal or mentoring role without my permission and without reason are unwelcome.  I have a boss.  I have a mentor.  I have a mother.  I don’t need your weird petnames.  I don’t need to be cooed.
My name is not Sweetie and I will not tolerate being talked to like a dog or a baby in the workplace.
In conclusion, my name is Patty.

Patton Oswalt on Boston

I was searching for something to say about what happened in Boston yesterday, and when I read this post from comedian Patton Oswalt, I felt it was the best thing anyone could say.  This is all so sad.

If you have comments, I encourage you to visit his facebook page where this was originally posted.

Patton Oswalt:

Boston. Fucking horrible.

I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, “Well, I’ve had it with humanity.”

But I was wrong. I don’t know what’s going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.

But here’s what I DO know. If it’s one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. (Thanks FAKE Gallery founder and owner Paul Kozlowski for pointing this out to me). This is a giant planet and we’re lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they’re pointed towards darkness.

But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We’d have eaten ourselves alive long ago.

So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, “The good outnumber you, and we always will.”

What Are Kate and Patty Doing?

Well, a lot.  We’re sorry that we haven’t been posting very much lately; we’re just very tired.  You see, Kate is awfully busy with papers and being a PhD student (which I’ve heard is hard).  She has to spend her time being responsible and maintaining a pretty stellar GPA.  Meanwhile, Patty is a damn mess (as you may have noticed).  Girlfriend is trying to figure out if she’s going to grad school this fall.  She’s also planning a national conference at work and it has taken over her life.  Like, for real.

Basically, we’re sorry that we haven’t been posting much lately.

We’re just so tired.

Patty

She only has one full-time job and two part-time jobs right now.  That might sound like a lot to you, but for Patty, that’s on the more reasonable end.  Once upon a time, Patty had six jobs.  She didn’t sleep much back then.

She writes a lot of poetry and is working hard at getting published more.

Kate

She’s in graduate school, working towards her PhD in English.  That’s why she’s so good at writing a blog.  Kate is the smart one.

Kate has to teach freshmen.  Therefore, she is a saint.