Thinking about the Slutwalk.

So, clearly, given my leaning toward equality and my complete disgust for the general perception and handling of rape in most societies, I thought that whole Slutwalk thing was brilliant. The idea behind it -- that anyone may be raped, regardless of what they were wearing, and that none of them either asked for or deserved it -- seems so mind-crushingly obvious to me that it almost causes me physical pain that it has to be said aloud, let alone that some people argue with it. 

Tonight I came across a profoundly self-loathing essay written by a depressingly unintelligent woman named Chelsea Fagan. 

I have, like pretty much every 22-year-old girl, gone out looking like a slut occasionally. And I got a significantly higher amount of leers, cat calls, and uncomfortable attention. I was not surprised; I had no one but myself to blame for the sudden nervous feeling that flared up in my stomach as I walked passed men checking out my shape in my revealing dress. I don’t dress like this anymore for that very reason. I want men to look at me and have thoughts other than, “I could have sex with her tonight if I wanted.”

This paragraph alone is stunningly near-sighted. "I had no one but myself to blame for the sudden nervous feeling that flared up in my stomach as I walked passed men checking out my shape in a revealing dress." Really? Really?

A) At 22 years old, you are not a girl. You are a woman. In Western society, identifying or being identified as a child when one is clearly not is insulting, demeaning, and has been associated with slavery and racism. It equates you with people who cannot live an independent life, which I'm sure is completely coincidental, oh hi thousands of years of gender-based subjugation. Cut that shit out.

B) passed? Look, I can see you have a bit of trouble on the intellectual level, but correct spelling and grammar is a joy we can all share in.

C) If you feel like you are at increased risk of assault because you're wearing tight clothing, that is not your fault. That is the fault of the men who assault women, the society that promotes sexual violence as titillation, and everyone who perpetuates the myth that the only women who get raped are dressed "slutty".

Aside from all that, there is no such thing as "slutty". The idea of a "slut" is a completely subjective thing. It changes from person to person. What looks slutty to your grandmother is probably completely different to what looks slutty to any given 15-year-old schoolgirl. "Slut" isn't even connected exclusively to clothing -- oh, no.

This photo turned up in a Google image search for "slut".

If she doesn't look slutty, that's alright, she can still act slutty, or have a slutty history, or say something slutty, or hell, maybe you just don't like her. It's a nebulous concept, and that is exactly why it's so convenient: it can be slapped on any woman, anywhere, at any time. It's completely meaningless. And it is certainly not justification for assault.

Women are pressured, followed, and hounded by men who, when sober and in the light of day, often would never do such a thing. And for a man, a sexually and visually driven man not in full command of his wits, having a woman tell him “no” while wearing the most provocative, arousing, blatantly sexual outfit possible is, to say the least, confusing. And while that does not give him the right to violate her, it also cannot be claimed that women are entirely innocent in this situation.

Er...yes, it can. If a man is so completely out of control of his instincts around attractive women when he's drunk that he cannot help raping them, I'm pretty sure he belongs in prison. I'm also bewildered by the idea that when a woman dresses "provocatively" (which is a relative concept, again) that means she is looking for sex from anyone at all, regardless of what she says. "Slutty" clothes are apparently implicit permission to all men who lay eyes on her to have sex with her, and if she isn't quick and loud and strong enough to withdraw her implicit consent, well, that's her fault. It's another nonsensical facet of the delicious subject of slut-shaming that it is supposedly so awful for a woman to want sex, and dress in a way she considers sexy, that any woman who does is therefore deserving of rape.

Over 80% of sexual assaults are committed by friends, acquaintances or family members of the victim. It has absolutely nothing to do with how they're dressed, or how much makeup they're wearing, or whether the news is on. Rape is always completely and utterly the fault of the rapist. This is a fact, not an opinion, but it's one an alarmingly small number of people seem to acknowledge.

Allow me to take a few minutes to rhapsodise about Damien Rice.

Yes, I'm well aware how very late I am to this realization, but Damien Rice writes amazing songs.

We might make out when nobody's there

It's not that we're scared

It's just that it's delicate

So why do you fill my sorrow

With the words you've borrowed

From the only place you've known

And why do you sing Hallelujah

If it means nothing to you

Why do you sing with me at all?

So, it is entirely possible that I just have a very generic and predictable life, and it is entirely possible that the phrases were just general enough that almost anything could be read into them, but I spent around seven hours last night immersing myself in these songs and I found myself pleasantly surprised by how very appropriate some of the lyrics seemed to be to my immediate situation. 'Hey!' says I, 'I know what that's like!' We bonded, Damien and I. I swear. It was magical. 

And what I am to you
Is not real

And what I am to you

You do not need

And what I am to you

Is not what you mean to me

You give me miles and miles of mountains

And I ask for the sea

I'm unsure how to react to this chorus, other than to say: yes. This, exactly. Phrasing so perfect, I can barely handle it.

I came.

Just trust me, I didn't know whether I was grinning or crying the first time I heard it. That's how unexpectedly accurate it was.

Now, I don't want to be one of those stupid fucks who are so insistent in their fangirl/boying that they end up issuing a ridiculous and completely untrue ultimatum like "if you don't ___ this ___, you are [insert bad thing]", but if you don't get that this song is beautiful, you don't have a soul.

That awkward moment when you stay up all night playing Pokémon.

After nine all-too-quick hours of wondrous training, bonding and adventure, I looked up from the world of Pokémon to discover that the sun was rising. It occurred to me in that moment that
a) I had not slept at all, and
b) I have scheduled an entire season of Doctor Who for tonight, so there is no sleep forthcoming when that fiery ball dips below the horizon once more.
This is perhaps more meaningful for me than one might think, given my generally nocturnal nature. Contrary to popular belief, just because I tend to be awake for more of the night than the day doesn't mean I don't value my sleep. Oh, no. In fact I value my sleep more than most things. Breathing comes in first, and sometimes food, but sleep is generally the top of the pile. Without it...things get strange. Bat Country strange. I have very little capacity for long periods of wakefulness.

Whatever else you may say about sleep deprivation, it amounts to a state of mind which is simultaneously like being incredibly drunk and also like having had way, way too much caffeine. It walks the line between 'funny' and 'humiliating'. I, for one, think it's worth the sideways glances and exasperation of my hapless friends, because I come up with some brilliant thoughts in my zombie-like state. Currently I have latched onto the idea of recreating these beauties in the comfort of my own kitchen with a ferocity I am unaccustomed to, even for baking:

It may even happen, if I don't collapse into a snoring, dribbling pile of insanity before I get around to it. Wish me luck.

I am obsessed with baking.

Baking is possibly the best thing ever. It's fun, pretty easy for the most part, and it results in delicious food. What could possibly go wrong with this equation? That's right -- nothing.
With that in mind, I am now dead set on baking some sort of Pokémon-related cake. Since my skills at cake decorating are undeveloped at best (and by that I mean I've never even tried it), this is probably going to take some practise. Some chocolatey, straight-out-of-the-oven, frosting-covered practise. 

Disclaimer: I am not responsible for any of the wondrous Poké-delicacies pictured above. They are merely my inspiration and I can only hope to attain such glory in the coming weeks. Stay tuned.