Caterwauling

I wasn’t going to say anything about Brock “the Rapist” Turner. But then I read Joe Biden’s statement and I got all weepy and shit. 

I’ve always said I’ve been very lucky. At best, my experiences have been mind-blowing. At worst, forgettable. They’ve ranged the gamut from weird to embarrassing to filled with bruises from falling off furniture. It’s all good. 

But there was one. 

Not that I would classify it as “that word.” But he was way way stronger than me. Wanted it way more. Was already showing signs of becoming a problem. 

My deal with myself was simple. Go with it. Stay in control. TAKE control. And change my address and phone number as soon as humanly possible. 

I left it at that and I leave it at that. I am blessed that I never ran into trouble on my drunkest nights. 

I’m thrilled to have plenty of stories, all of them with — ahem — happy endings. 

But I can’t say I’m unfamiliar with looking for the exits. Calculating my strength vs his. Wondering if I had said or done something wrong … Or what would happen if I did. 

It would be a few years before my slutty phase would end. But I’ve never quite forgotten to assess the situation properly. To think about where my phone is or my keys. To keep one eye half-open. You know. Just in case. 

Of course, if you know me — I mean know me — you know I mapped my way to the exit before the lights went out. 

It goes back to an old family saying. It’s been fun but I’ve got to run. 

That all said, I’m so glad we are having a national conversation about this. The only thing that girl was “asking for” was a hangover. The three months in jail Brock Turner got from a probably paid-off judge is an insult to womankind. 

But the moment of pause it gives to generations of young men? More than we all could have hoped for. And if it gives a kick in the mental nuts of the men we used to know, even better. 

I don’t get too personal with people. I mean, sure, I get personal HERE. But when people start asking me about movies and TV shows they watch, I got nothin’. Haven’t seen ’em. Not my cuppa tea. Even if I wanted it to be, my entertainment budget is far less.

They talk about having blood and sorority siblings, or workout routines, or whatever they’re into … and I still got nothin’. Husbands, kids, play dates, fancy trips — nope.

Sorry I bore you by simply existing here. I would bore myself if I thought that hard about it.

I do try to talk politics, because that’s my love, and their eyes glaze over. Either that or I get a dissertation on my candidates (yes I follow more than the presidential election). And I just want to put a foot up someone’s ass.

I hate feeling like there’s nowhere I belong.

But then I just got off a short, 15-minute call with the Hillary Clinton volunteer organizers. And Hillary herself got on. And I felt so … where I belong.

Granted, I hate talking to people in person. What the campaign needs most — people to get the message out — is what gives me the biggest anxiety ever.

Talking to people who might get it but who probably never will. Talking to people IN GENERAL. That’s why I became a writer, yo. It’s why I edit others. Thinking on one’s feet is a talent best reserved for the politicians themselves.

It’s weird. I finally found my homeys. And I have the chance to embrace them and be embraced. But what will our heroine do, and will she ever not just find her home but also enter it?

Not my favorite week. Not my favorite anything right now.

But then this IM helped to take my spiritual cup from near-empty to more than half-full …

I also got lunch at my favorite place.

So while the shitpile is deep, I have a little more energy to keep digging. If only the Benadryl would wear off …