Alright! Alright! Alright! Hello, Peoria!
*ahem* you know, I never did forgive my parents for not giving me electric guitar lessons and making me a rock star from a very young age. Either way, today...today!--insert respectful silence here--is the day that we all find ourselves equally blessed in the Yahoo! news feeds. Because today, not like any other day, the world has come to the shining conclusion that I have been trying to beat into their brainy little heads all along. Really it's two conclusions, but we'll work on the one I'm so excited about first.
Your children do NOT need shirts with "Mow Me" or "Too Pretty For Homework" on them! That's right, no more "Juicy" ass pants or tops. That's right, people! You too can have a son or daughter that is not a prick or a whore! And you too can tell your child, "No, you do not need a padded bra or a bikini at five years of age!"
And do you know why? Because Yahoo! says so! This just in, Yahoo! and AshVee have been caught walking, hand in hand, down the boardwalk of love. That's right folks, child pedophilia enouraging clothing is OUT this year. Let us pray that nudity isn't the fad to replace it.
With that being said, I also feel the need to point out the other headline, "Man moves to Oregon to Pay Off Student Loan Debt with Pot Business." Okay, okay, so that isn't the exact line, but come-on people. If we're to the point where illicit drug sales are the best way to pay off your loans, there is a problem. (He paid of 80,000 or 100,000 in four years...too bad he'll spend the next four in prison).
I'm a recently made ex-college student (I didn't graduate, I was dismissed because the school changed how they "graded" withdrawals for transfer students) looking at 65,000 in debt. I'm telling you right now that if selling pot, which really is less medically damning that too much Tylenol, I could pay off all of that in four years, I would grab my spade, watering pail, and Maricle Gro.
This man. This genius. This God among the indebted paid off 80,000 and had almost 50,000 stocked away in accounts and cash. That's 130,000 above his cost of living and cost of doing business! My angle? Make it legal and tax the living FUCK out of it. I'm working two jobs now, and can barely pay off 7,000 a year. This man worked NO real job and paid off 10,000 a year. Genius I tell you.
I bow to a power far greater than my own...except for the prison part...that part kinda sucks.
Deuces and Later Days
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Monday, October 17, 2011
Perhaps the Most Important Post I Will Ever Scribble
Okay class, today, we're going to discuss relationships. What are they? Who is having them, and why?
Just kidding!
But in all seriousness, why people? Why with the heartache, the heartbreak? If he doesn't love you, he doesn't love you, and your tears are not going to make the difference. If she's a hoe-bag cheater, she's a hoe-bag cheater, and no amount of taking her back will fix it!
Sorry...rant ended.
That is all.
Just kidding!
But in all seriousness, why people? Why with the heartache, the heartbreak? If he doesn't love you, he doesn't love you, and your tears are not going to make the difference. If she's a hoe-bag cheater, she's a hoe-bag cheater, and no amount of taking her back will fix it!
Sorry...rant ended.
That is all.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Don't Lick it...Don't Stick it...Don't...
Okay, so perhaps the title of this is a little offputting, or maybe it isn't and you know exactly what you're getting into and what you're not. Anyway, I ripped the actual title of this post from my Biology Professor Dr. Eric Stabenau, so if you're out there EKS, I gave you full credit and if you'd like I can site it in acceptable Ecology Format for you!
Anyway, on with the story. So for those of your who don't know, I'm scientifically inclined (hence the source of this title) and as such I want to go to medical school. I'm working toward that goal by working in an Emergency Department in the United States. As such, I am well aware of the HIPPA laws and all that, but let me just share something with you people. A little fact of life, if you will. There are three or four difference categories that I divide things into:
1. Don't lick it.
2. Don't stick it.
3. Don't suck it.
That's it. Three little categories in which everything in life can fit. Everything. Seriously. Throw something out there. What was that? In the back row? A Zebra you say? Well you really don't want to lick or suck a zebra, so it fits into two categories, but however, if you want, you can stick it in a zoo or cage somewhere...so whatever. Now on to something a little more common place. How about...a straw? You suck on it, and maybe if you're feeling odd or coy you can lick it, but by God you're not about to stick it in your eye. Am I right people? Am I right?
Thank you.
Anyway, now that you get the break down here. I'm going to throw you a bone. There are breakdowns to these categories. Some of them, and these items mostly have to do with number two up there, that should be precursored with "unless attacked to something you can pull it out with." Now think on that for a moment.
Keep thinking you haven't hardly done enough of it yey.
Mortified?
Grossed out?
Worried about where your vibrator is and if it has something you can pull it out with?
Well then we're on the very same page. Now people, America is supposed to be this shining example for the world around us, but when the complaint of an up and coming shining star of the American dream comes into the Emergency Department is that they lost their vibrator something is wrong. Just as a clarification, they checked the side table, and it wasn't in the bedsheets.
I mean come on people. I understand that in the heat of the moment things can happen, but what about leading up to that time? A few minutes before? You know you think about using that thing long before you actually do, and we all know that you actually went through a mental check list when you bought it. Now maybe, just maybe it was your first time in a story and you were nervous, so you're mental list went out the window and you bought one in the least imposing box. The ones marked "Good Vibrations" and "Santa's Little Candy Cane" went right out the window and you nearly died from the one marked "Stimulating End". So you grabbed one without thinking. But when you got how, I KNOW you thought about the logistics. Jesus, who knew "Dog Bone" was going to be so friggin big, right?
So why, oh why, didn't you think about that particular object's exit strategy? Why were you so concerned with the entrance? I mean, when you're bent over a table with a doc trying to remove that thing from the wrong oriface, you're wondering these same things so why not jump ahead a bit and think about the three categories that rule my life. Don't lick it. Don't stick it. Don't suck it.
Anyway, on with the story. So for those of your who don't know, I'm scientifically inclined (hence the source of this title) and as such I want to go to medical school. I'm working toward that goal by working in an Emergency Department in the United States. As such, I am well aware of the HIPPA laws and all that, but let me just share something with you people. A little fact of life, if you will. There are three or four difference categories that I divide things into:
1. Don't lick it.
2. Don't stick it.
3. Don't suck it.
That's it. Three little categories in which everything in life can fit. Everything. Seriously. Throw something out there. What was that? In the back row? A Zebra you say? Well you really don't want to lick or suck a zebra, so it fits into two categories, but however, if you want, you can stick it in a zoo or cage somewhere...so whatever. Now on to something a little more common place. How about...a straw? You suck on it, and maybe if you're feeling odd or coy you can lick it, but by God you're not about to stick it in your eye. Am I right people? Am I right?
Thank you.
Anyway, now that you get the break down here. I'm going to throw you a bone. There are breakdowns to these categories. Some of them, and these items mostly have to do with number two up there, that should be precursored with "unless attacked to something you can pull it out with." Now think on that for a moment.
Keep thinking you haven't hardly done enough of it yey.
Mortified?
Grossed out?
Worried about where your vibrator is and if it has something you can pull it out with?
Well then we're on the very same page. Now people, America is supposed to be this shining example for the world around us, but when the complaint of an up and coming shining star of the American dream comes into the Emergency Department is that they lost their vibrator something is wrong. Just as a clarification, they checked the side table, and it wasn't in the bedsheets.
I mean come on people. I understand that in the heat of the moment things can happen, but what about leading up to that time? A few minutes before? You know you think about using that thing long before you actually do, and we all know that you actually went through a mental check list when you bought it. Now maybe, just maybe it was your first time in a story and you were nervous, so you're mental list went out the window and you bought one in the least imposing box. The ones marked "Good Vibrations" and "Santa's Little Candy Cane" went right out the window and you nearly died from the one marked "Stimulating End". So you grabbed one without thinking. But when you got how, I KNOW you thought about the logistics. Jesus, who knew "Dog Bone" was going to be so friggin big, right?
So why, oh why, didn't you think about that particular object's exit strategy? Why were you so concerned with the entrance? I mean, when you're bent over a table with a doc trying to remove that thing from the wrong oriface, you're wondering these same things so why not jump ahead a bit and think about the three categories that rule my life. Don't lick it. Don't stick it. Don't suck it.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Windshield Love All
Well, well, well. It has been a while, hasn't it, blogging world? I have excuses, I have heart-felt apologies, and I have rotten tomatoes at the ready for when you finish this piece, but what I don't have, what I don't have is the piece of mind to actually defend myself from the tomato-y onslaught. And do you want to know why? I'll tell you why! (Come on guys...its a blog, if you didn't think I was going to tell you, I think you need to go back to facebook). Anyway, so basically my blog "Brain to Earth, Come in Please" is a giant bitch session, and I am debating on starting another on this site that's a little less ragging and a little more sunshine and roses. Let's be honest for a moment though, who wants to read about my awesome day at work or how my Organismal Biology exam went? No one, that's who.
So I'm going to continue my giant B and M session with another little story. Now I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "AshVee, there cannot, simply cannot be anything worse than the tights story." You'd be wrong, but again, you'd be painting a better world. This story starts, like most stories do, with a boy, a girl, and a tennis racket.
That's right.
Soak it up.
Ready for the story?
...K...
So I wake up this morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, with the knowledge in my head that I have to be to work by 11am, which is a pretty good sleep in for me. So I wake up around 8 this morning, make a Toaster Scramble, pour a glass of OJ, and put the coffee on (for those of you who don't know yet, my name is AshVee, and I am addicted to coffee *Hello AshVee*). So I'm just chillaxing in my appartment when I hear a screen door slam in the apartment upstairs. Silently cursing the face that they get a balcony with a hammock and I get a front porch with a three foot hole in the middle, I sit and sip on my orange juice until the coffee stops making that gurgling noise.
Amidst the gurgle another door slams, this time too heavy to be the scream, and I'm assuming that she's left her porch and gone to leave. I was wrong, and I have never been happier to admit to that fact. Less than five minutes later it starts, faint, waivery and almost wispy, coming through the airvents. There's trouble in Paradise. Apparently Brad (names have been changed to protect the guilty) cheated on Janet, and now wants her to take him back.
"Ha! Fat chance asshole." I chuckle into my coffee cup, thoroughly pleased to listen to the argument as both parties seem to be giving as good at they're getting. Then something else happens. Something, and I'm not sure what, clashes to the ground outside my window, shattering to bits and pieces.
Now, you should know something. I'm not a real violent person, and I don't condone domestic violence, but if you've ever actually seen a woman scorned throw a man's tennis racket through a car windshield, you'd be as pleased as I was. Now you have to get the whole picture, this tennis racket, is now halfway lodged into this windshield. I'm staring, curtain pulled back unabashedly, mouth agape in my first floor window, staring with a mirthful twinkle in my eye, because I know...I somehow just know its his car. It took a good thirty seconds for the screaming to start. Again, you have to realize that I am an avid pro-peace type of person, so when I tell you that this real winner runs down the stairs, screaming, with his equally winner girlfriend chasing him with another tennis racket, you have to understand that its not the violence that I find hilarious. Its the pure, unadultered, Three Stooges Comedy that I find almost too good to talk about. He proceeds to his car, screaming, gesturing at the vehicle, chasing her around the car.
Now the really funny part is that while he was chasing her, she was chasing him. This little slip of a woman's chasing this big man around, and after one or two trips around the car, comprehension dawns on him that she's not finished causing damage with that racket. So, with less pride than flight, he takes off, sprinting down the street, tail between his legs, while three or four people peek their heads through their front doors, laughing.
So the real thing here, besides the hilarity of it all, is that these two are the opitomy of white trash. Come on buddy, did you have to come over after you told her you cheated on her? Did she have to launch a racket through his windshield? No, no she didn't...but it made me chuckle, and now, at work, she's making everyone else chuckle. So, moral of the story: if you have to do something less than classy, make at least one person laugh, because you never know how much its going to brighten their day.
Deuces and Later Days
So I'm going to continue my giant B and M session with another little story. Now I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "AshVee, there cannot, simply cannot be anything worse than the tights story." You'd be wrong, but again, you'd be painting a better world. This story starts, like most stories do, with a boy, a girl, and a tennis racket.
That's right.
Soak it up.
Ready for the story?
...K...
So I wake up this morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, with the knowledge in my head that I have to be to work by 11am, which is a pretty good sleep in for me. So I wake up around 8 this morning, make a Toaster Scramble, pour a glass of OJ, and put the coffee on (for those of you who don't know yet, my name is AshVee, and I am addicted to coffee *Hello AshVee*). So I'm just chillaxing in my appartment when I hear a screen door slam in the apartment upstairs. Silently cursing the face that they get a balcony with a hammock and I get a front porch with a three foot hole in the middle, I sit and sip on my orange juice until the coffee stops making that gurgling noise.
Amidst the gurgle another door slams, this time too heavy to be the scream, and I'm assuming that she's left her porch and gone to leave. I was wrong, and I have never been happier to admit to that fact. Less than five minutes later it starts, faint, waivery and almost wispy, coming through the airvents. There's trouble in Paradise. Apparently Brad (names have been changed to protect the guilty) cheated on Janet, and now wants her to take him back.
"Ha! Fat chance asshole." I chuckle into my coffee cup, thoroughly pleased to listen to the argument as both parties seem to be giving as good at they're getting. Then something else happens. Something, and I'm not sure what, clashes to the ground outside my window, shattering to bits and pieces.
Now, you should know something. I'm not a real violent person, and I don't condone domestic violence, but if you've ever actually seen a woman scorned throw a man's tennis racket through a car windshield, you'd be as pleased as I was. Now you have to get the whole picture, this tennis racket, is now halfway lodged into this windshield. I'm staring, curtain pulled back unabashedly, mouth agape in my first floor window, staring with a mirthful twinkle in my eye, because I know...I somehow just know its his car. It took a good thirty seconds for the screaming to start. Again, you have to realize that I am an avid pro-peace type of person, so when I tell you that this real winner runs down the stairs, screaming, with his equally winner girlfriend chasing him with another tennis racket, you have to understand that its not the violence that I find hilarious. Its the pure, unadultered, Three Stooges Comedy that I find almost too good to talk about. He proceeds to his car, screaming, gesturing at the vehicle, chasing her around the car.
Now the really funny part is that while he was chasing her, she was chasing him. This little slip of a woman's chasing this big man around, and after one or two trips around the car, comprehension dawns on him that she's not finished causing damage with that racket. So, with less pride than flight, he takes off, sprinting down the street, tail between his legs, while three or four people peek their heads through their front doors, laughing.
So the real thing here, besides the hilarity of it all, is that these two are the opitomy of white trash. Come on buddy, did you have to come over after you told her you cheated on her? Did she have to launch a racket through his windshield? No, no she didn't...but it made me chuckle, and now, at work, she's making everyone else chuckle. So, moral of the story: if you have to do something less than classy, make at least one person laugh, because you never know how much its going to brighten their day.
Deuces and Later Days
Monday, September 12, 2011
Recruitment 2011: Alpha Chi Omega Zeta Eta
Well, my freaky darlings, I suppose I should mention that I am a loud and proud member of the Alpha Chi Omega: Zeta Eta women's fraternity at Bradley University. This year was my very first year actually recruiting women for the sorority, and let me tell you, it is a bitch. You've got to get the right clothes, use the correct words, and by god if you eat or drink without your PNM eating or drinking, you might lose half your ass from the beating you're going to get. Anyway, enough of my B and M.
So Zeta Eta isn't a real large AXO chapter, but we are all pretty close, and I can honestly tell you that these are some of the best women I've ever known. Our little chapter grew yesterday by a few new little lyres, and I am so excited to welcome them into our chapter. We had an awesome Bid Day Dance Party (which just kind of blew up, as we were supposed to be playing games of some kind) that really broke the ice and let everyone get to know each other.
My only gripe about the entire recruitment process is that of all the sororities on campus, we were the only one not to make campus total. My gripe isn't that we didn't get the girls, my gripe is that we have a "total". AXO is full of girls who are REAL. Let's face it. You know the type I'm talking about. They're always there, always ready, always who they are. They don't plaster a fake image on themselves or try to be something they aren't. My gripe is who are they to tell us how many women we should have? We can't help it if most of the female population would rather drink all night or be surrounded by literally 100 girls who all look exactly the same.
So the message I want all the young women of the world to get from this is that you don't have to be someone else. You are who you are who you are, and there are people out there who will always love you for you.
So Zeta Eta isn't a real large AXO chapter, but we are all pretty close, and I can honestly tell you that these are some of the best women I've ever known. Our little chapter grew yesterday by a few new little lyres, and I am so excited to welcome them into our chapter. We had an awesome Bid Day Dance Party (which just kind of blew up, as we were supposed to be playing games of some kind) that really broke the ice and let everyone get to know each other.
My only gripe about the entire recruitment process is that of all the sororities on campus, we were the only one not to make campus total. My gripe isn't that we didn't get the girls, my gripe is that we have a "total". AXO is full of girls who are REAL. Let's face it. You know the type I'm talking about. They're always there, always ready, always who they are. They don't plaster a fake image on themselves or try to be something they aren't. My gripe is who are they to tell us how many women we should have? We can't help it if most of the female population would rather drink all night or be surrounded by literally 100 girls who all look exactly the same.
So the message I want all the young women of the world to get from this is that you don't have to be someone else. You are who you are who you are, and there are people out there who will always love you for you.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
CYOA: Cover Your Own Ass
Alright, so I understand that the last post I wrote should have been the fluffy, light weight one, but I just had to do this. I'll start off by telling you a story...
So I'm walking toward the library this morning, just to go print something and get a iced carmel macciatto, aka crack on ice. It was a beautiful day, sunny with a light breeze, and nothing could get me down, because, damnit, I had money for coffee. So I'm walking along, a song in my heart and a poem in my soul, when I happen to step behind a blonde girl walking to the self same library. Now, I walk along, and as a normal human, vaguely give a perusal of my surroundings. There's a fairly cute man to my left, smoking (major turnoff), there's a girl talking to her mom on the phone, and then there's the blonde.
So at first my brain blocks it out, you know, how you don't really see the dead person in the room until you actually look at the floor and see the blood? So she stops, bends over, and picks something up off the ground, and there it is! I wasn't sure how I didn't see it sooner, but she's got these green tights on...and that's it. Now I know what some of you are thinking, that they're thick dancer's tights that aren't see through. You'd be wrong, but you would be painting a nicer world.
So she's got these see through green tights on, with this short little sweater, that she doesn't keep pulling down so it's now around her hips, and the world can see that she clearly does not mow the grass down there, if you know what I mean. So I figure, I'll let her know that her shirt's around her belly button, you know, and she'll fix it!
So I saunter up quickly, tap her on the shoulder, and kindly tell her that her top has ridden up. She looks at me, looks down, shrugs her shoulders, and keeps walking. Now I'm not a prude, I like to let the girls hang out from time to time, but its always with a bra on and a shirt that keeps nip from being seen. This trollop is wearing women's undergarments as a pair of pants! And you know what? Someone in the library told her it was cute! I SAW crotch hair and they think its cute? World, come on, do me a favor, find you're melons and firmly attach them, because in no universe is crotch hair cute. With the world at my back, please, please, please, women and men, CYOA...and crotch.
So I'm walking toward the library this morning, just to go print something and get a iced carmel macciatto, aka crack on ice. It was a beautiful day, sunny with a light breeze, and nothing could get me down, because, damnit, I had money for coffee. So I'm walking along, a song in my heart and a poem in my soul, when I happen to step behind a blonde girl walking to the self same library. Now, I walk along, and as a normal human, vaguely give a perusal of my surroundings. There's a fairly cute man to my left, smoking (major turnoff), there's a girl talking to her mom on the phone, and then there's the blonde.
So at first my brain blocks it out, you know, how you don't really see the dead person in the room until you actually look at the floor and see the blood? So she stops, bends over, and picks something up off the ground, and there it is! I wasn't sure how I didn't see it sooner, but she's got these green tights on...and that's it. Now I know what some of you are thinking, that they're thick dancer's tights that aren't see through. You'd be wrong, but you would be painting a nicer world.
So she's got these see through green tights on, with this short little sweater, that she doesn't keep pulling down so it's now around her hips, and the world can see that she clearly does not mow the grass down there, if you know what I mean. So I figure, I'll let her know that her shirt's around her belly button, you know, and she'll fix it!
So I saunter up quickly, tap her on the shoulder, and kindly tell her that her top has ridden up. She looks at me, looks down, shrugs her shoulders, and keeps walking. Now I'm not a prude, I like to let the girls hang out from time to time, but its always with a bra on and a shirt that keeps nip from being seen. This trollop is wearing women's undergarments as a pair of pants! And you know what? Someone in the library told her it was cute! I SAW crotch hair and they think its cute? World, come on, do me a favor, find you're melons and firmly attach them, because in no universe is crotch hair cute. With the world at my back, please, please, please, women and men, CYOA...and crotch.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Domestic Abuse in the Media
Alright, so I know that I'm supposed to start with something lighter and fluffier than this, but it is what spurred me to actually create this thing in the first place, so you get what you get. At work I have a bit of down time on occasions, and today was such a day. Surfing through the infamous interwebs, I stumbled upon (Not on Stumble Upon) something that bothered me. It was a yahoo topic, featuring that blonde from Glee and some photographer.
I won't bog you down with any of my opinions on either of them until you actually understand what's got me so worked up about it. In a day and age where domestic violence is something that is negative and pushed under the rug, we do our best to get the message out there that there IS somewhere/something/someone you can turn to if you need help getting out of one of these situations. Personally, I am a proud member of Alpha Chi Omega sorority and out number one philanthropy is The Prevention of Domestic Abuse. So now you've got a bit more of an image of my ideals.
So this yahoo blurb was about a series of phtographs done by photographer Tyler Shields. Let's bypass the fact that these images were poorly shot, too bright, posed poorly, and the model looked strung out. Let's not worry that the poses were contrived, let us instead look at the model's face. Her left eye to be exact, because it is that left eye that everyone is going to see, oh and maybe the ironing board she lays on, the ironing chord that is wrapped around her wrist and holds her like she's chained, and perhaps the iron that she uses as a water source.
So now you've got the general image of what she's doing: the domestic chore of ironing. So let me color you an image, if you will. She's pretty, blonde, long legged and pale skinned. She's got on a pok-a-dot little black and white dress (we'll get to the stupidity of that later) and she's sporting the shiner of the century while some masculine hand holds the iron whose chord is wrapped around her hands, holding her back. So you've got the picture right? The woman is supposed to represent the 1/4 women who will be in a relationship where they are abused. For those of you who don't like math, that's one in four women. Do you have four female friends? Think about it for a moment...yeah? Well picture one of them being beating or berated by their significant other, because odds are, one of them will be.
So now I've bored you with stats. Let me bring it back around for you. The punchline if you'll forgive the harsh phrasing for the situation. This woman, who is beautiful and "perfect" in nature, has been abused. Now imagine you're a woman who has been beaten by her spouse. Your sense of self has been torn apart and beaten down far more than your body. Now some asshole with a camera shoots a picture of a "Barbie-doll" laying, smiling, on an ironing board with a black eye. Smiling. Happy. So now you're abused, thinking about maybe leaving, and then BAM! this young thing is telling you that she's happy to be beaten.
So we'll take it a step further to the photographer's own words, "Even Barbie gets bruises." Let me for a second, allow you to percolate on that statement.
Enough time? No? Go ahead and really soak it up.
You pissed yet? Good, because this sleeze bag of the centure just said that EVERYONE is beaten. Did I list that statistic before incorrectly? 1:4. 1/4 1in 4. That is not a 100%, and it is a statistic that is supported by the United States Center For Prevention of Domestic Abuse. Everyone does not get abused, yet this jackass has essentially told women everywhere that it is just A-OK to let their spouse hit them. Now, I'd like to go back to our earlier exercise.
Imagine you're an abused partner in a relationship. Got that mind set? Selfless. Useless. Depressed. Self loathing. You there yet? Good, because now some idiot who has a camera and a well known actress that is seen by literally millions of young women at least once a week on a new up and coming television show, is going to tell you that its okay that you get beaten, because even Ken hits Barbie on occasion. Seriously? What jackass let this girl sign that contract? What masoginist was behind the camera? Now I know that to be taken seriously you're supposed to use big PC words that won't make you look like you're too stupid to come up with "good words", but these are words that are used to express anger, frustration, and rage (Lewis Black I hope you don't mind I just stole your phrasing, I'm sure you'd find it appropriate). FUCK! Come on, what dickless fuck told this man that his First Amendment Right was OK to exercise? Yeah, you CAN post what you want, doesn't mean you SHOULD.
But I digress. So you're an abused woman living with a man you're about to leave. You've finally made the decision that you've had enough. Now you've got this young girl who does chores with a smile on her face and a bruise around her eye. Then the very statement, "Even Barbie Gets Bruises" tells you that maybe you should stay. If all women are abused, maybe the next man is worse. Maybe you're just not strong enough. Maybe you should just give up. Now you've got this mindset that perhaps your guy is a normal guy. So you stay, and then the next time you fix mashed potatoes instead of baked he beats you until you're laying in a hosptial bed waiting for the surgery to open up your skull and reduce the brain bleed that might paralyze you for life.
I'm not saying that this man should not have the right to take these photographs. I'm not saying that he shouldn't have the right to publish them. I'm just saying that perhaps the world at large should take a step back, look at what was done here, and eviscerate him in literature until he is no longer capable of finding work.
Normally I would sign this with a "Deuces and Later Days", but for some women and men out there that are the victims of domestic abuse there might not be later days, so I'll take my normally flippant sign off and leave you with something a little more. If you need help, an ear, a shoulder, a way out, there are resources. I'll leave you with a number that you can call if you need help. Its 24-hours and nation wide. Please, if you are the victim of domestic abuse, know that there are people out there who can help, and know that this is not acceptable.
United States Government Hotline for Prevention of Domestic Abuse:
These numbers are available for Spanish and English speaking alike.
24-hour call line number: 1-800-799-SAFE that's 1-800-799-7233.
If you're hearing impared, there is a TDD option at 1-800-787-3224
I won't bog you down with any of my opinions on either of them until you actually understand what's got me so worked up about it. In a day and age where domestic violence is something that is negative and pushed under the rug, we do our best to get the message out there that there IS somewhere/something/someone you can turn to if you need help getting out of one of these situations. Personally, I am a proud member of Alpha Chi Omega sorority and out number one philanthropy is The Prevention of Domestic Abuse. So now you've got a bit more of an image of my ideals.
So this yahoo blurb was about a series of phtographs done by photographer Tyler Shields. Let's bypass the fact that these images were poorly shot, too bright, posed poorly, and the model looked strung out. Let's not worry that the poses were contrived, let us instead look at the model's face. Her left eye to be exact, because it is that left eye that everyone is going to see, oh and maybe the ironing board she lays on, the ironing chord that is wrapped around her wrist and holds her like she's chained, and perhaps the iron that she uses as a water source.
So now you've got the general image of what she's doing: the domestic chore of ironing. So let me color you an image, if you will. She's pretty, blonde, long legged and pale skinned. She's got on a pok-a-dot little black and white dress (we'll get to the stupidity of that later) and she's sporting the shiner of the century while some masculine hand holds the iron whose chord is wrapped around her hands, holding her back. So you've got the picture right? The woman is supposed to represent the 1/4 women who will be in a relationship where they are abused. For those of you who don't like math, that's one in four women. Do you have four female friends? Think about it for a moment...yeah? Well picture one of them being beating or berated by their significant other, because odds are, one of them will be.
So now I've bored you with stats. Let me bring it back around for you. The punchline if you'll forgive the harsh phrasing for the situation. This woman, who is beautiful and "perfect" in nature, has been abused. Now imagine you're a woman who has been beaten by her spouse. Your sense of self has been torn apart and beaten down far more than your body. Now some asshole with a camera shoots a picture of a "Barbie-doll" laying, smiling, on an ironing board with a black eye. Smiling. Happy. So now you're abused, thinking about maybe leaving, and then BAM! this young thing is telling you that she's happy to be beaten.
So we'll take it a step further to the photographer's own words, "Even Barbie gets bruises." Let me for a second, allow you to percolate on that statement.
Enough time? No? Go ahead and really soak it up.
You pissed yet? Good, because this sleeze bag of the centure just said that EVERYONE is beaten. Did I list that statistic before incorrectly? 1:4. 1/4 1in 4. That is not a 100%, and it is a statistic that is supported by the United States Center For Prevention of Domestic Abuse. Everyone does not get abused, yet this jackass has essentially told women everywhere that it is just A-OK to let their spouse hit them. Now, I'd like to go back to our earlier exercise.
Imagine you're an abused partner in a relationship. Got that mind set? Selfless. Useless. Depressed. Self loathing. You there yet? Good, because now some idiot who has a camera and a well known actress that is seen by literally millions of young women at least once a week on a new up and coming television show, is going to tell you that its okay that you get beaten, because even Ken hits Barbie on occasion. Seriously? What jackass let this girl sign that contract? What masoginist was behind the camera? Now I know that to be taken seriously you're supposed to use big PC words that won't make you look like you're too stupid to come up with "good words", but these are words that are used to express anger, frustration, and rage (Lewis Black I hope you don't mind I just stole your phrasing, I'm sure you'd find it appropriate). FUCK! Come on, what dickless fuck told this man that his First Amendment Right was OK to exercise? Yeah, you CAN post what you want, doesn't mean you SHOULD.
But I digress. So you're an abused woman living with a man you're about to leave. You've finally made the decision that you've had enough. Now you've got this young girl who does chores with a smile on her face and a bruise around her eye. Then the very statement, "Even Barbie Gets Bruises" tells you that maybe you should stay. If all women are abused, maybe the next man is worse. Maybe you're just not strong enough. Maybe you should just give up. Now you've got this mindset that perhaps your guy is a normal guy. So you stay, and then the next time you fix mashed potatoes instead of baked he beats you until you're laying in a hosptial bed waiting for the surgery to open up your skull and reduce the brain bleed that might paralyze you for life.
I'm not saying that this man should not have the right to take these photographs. I'm not saying that he shouldn't have the right to publish them. I'm just saying that perhaps the world at large should take a step back, look at what was done here, and eviscerate him in literature until he is no longer capable of finding work.
Normally I would sign this with a "Deuces and Later Days", but for some women and men out there that are the victims of domestic abuse there might not be later days, so I'll take my normally flippant sign off and leave you with something a little more. If you need help, an ear, a shoulder, a way out, there are resources. I'll leave you with a number that you can call if you need help. Its 24-hours and nation wide. Please, if you are the victim of domestic abuse, know that there are people out there who can help, and know that this is not acceptable.
United States Government Hotline for Prevention of Domestic Abuse:
These numbers are available for Spanish and English speaking alike.
24-hour call line number: 1-800-799-SAFE that's 1-800-799-7233.
If you're hearing impared, there is a TDD option at 1-800-787-3224
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