Sick and Sexy

 *Ahem, ahem*

That probably looked like a super hooky trying-to-get-your-attention introduction line. But actually it was just me clearing out phlegm from my Swole AF bronchiole tubes. I’m sick; I constantly sound like I’m trying to get your attention.

Usually, I love attention. I’m the hammiest ham that ever hammed. But being sick doesn’t make you look so hot. Stop staring at me, grocery clerk, I’m well aware that my face is the color of dirty white converses and that my hair is plastered to my scalp! Just let me pay you for my damn mucinex and go home to watch yet another rerun of America’s Next Top Model. In bed. With a heating pad.

It was a special treat coming into work (when I could) last week without any make up on. I felt super confident sporting the odd ring of breakouts around my nose caused by tissue irritation. Who doesn’t want a pimple exactly in the middle of the fold between their nostril and their cheek? It’s everything I’ve been waiting for.

If you didn’t catch my super fun acne circle, you may have been assaulted by the “vague plague” smell. You know, the scent of infection with just a hint of chicken soup and the remnant of a saltwater gargle. Boy, if I could bottle it.

I’m not sure how you could miss the spiral of spots or the tubercular aroma, but if you did, the dead giveaway is the man-goose-whore voice – that voice that’s a little honky tonk, a little slutty, and a whole lotta burly man beard. For the past week it's been, "Hi Kelly!" "Hey guys!" "Oh, you sound awful." Ah. Yes. I had no idea. 

What you can't see (or hear) (or smell) is that every muscle from my neck to my hips is SCREAMING. I tell ya, if you're looking for an addition to your abs day or your back day or even your shoulder day, I would definitely recommend a coughing circuit. Shit, get crazy, make it a combo move! The lunge & cough, coming soon to a fitness class near you. The best HIIT you'll ever do. 

We’ve all been there, so, you know…just don’t judge me for my converse complexioned, oily haired, zit clustered, plague scented, Janis Joplin/Al Pacino/Clint Eastwood sounding self. It’s temporary. And hey, silver lining, I'm totally getting ripped in the mean time. I'ma be as swole as my bronchiole tubes. #lunge&cough  

Fucking Nice

Boy I miss this blog being funny.

We’ll get back there one of these days.

You are likely aware at this point that the band I was so excited to be a part of decided that they didn’t want me to be a part of it any longer. A brief summary of the events occurring from approximately 5 p.m. to 7p.m. last Monday:

·      Best friend (now former) (duh) texts the band group message stating that the other three people in the band are pursuing a different direction with a “more aggressive lineup”

·      Immediately my phone rings to alert me of an email that I have been removed as an admin from the Facebook band page

·      I log onto Facebook to confirm said removal and find that I have also been blocked by former best friend on my personal page

·      I receive a desktop notification on my laptop that I have been removed from the shared drop box folder with our photos and music

·      Passwords to email and Instagram accounts are changed

·      Instagram account and Facebook page are deleted within an hour

Boy, that escalated quickly. And so it is for the second time on this lovely blog of mine that I use that iconic phrase from one of my favorite movies, She’s the Man, “It was just, like, a big, huge, dumping.” No, I don’t know what the actual fuck happened or why, and I never will, because I decided that a clean, hard break would be better than “closure.”

This “break up” or “dumping” or whatever the fuck, comes on the tail end of a horrendously, truly, shockingly terrible few months of my life. I haven’t really talked to anyone about it, and I’m sure I’ve seemed completely normal, but surprise, I have not been not okay. This whole thing is a learning experience for me, so I’m going to share some wisdom and knowledge that I am learning about myself and life in general.  

vvv

Some facts about me:

1. I am a nice human being.

2. When you are a nice human being, sometimes people take advantage of you.

3. I can find the good in literally anyone. And sometimes (almost always) this leads me to give not-so-good people way more chances than they deserve.

4. I give beyond my means even when I don’t get anything back.

5. Side note: These qualities make me a really good social worker.

6. Side side note: The qualities also make me a really good friend.

So yes, I am a giver. Not in the Lois Lowry sense of transference of memories, but in the emotional sense. My entire life goal is to make people around me happy. I like to be liked. I am kind to everyone unless you really, seriously, majorly fuck me over. Even then, I am more likely to walk away and cry for a while by myself.

Some facts about life in general:

1. There is only so much you can give. There is a thing, a real thing, called “compassion fatigue.” It is when you give too many fucks and you run out of fucks and it starts to take a toll on you because you don’t even have enough fucks left to take care of yourself. I need to learn to stop giving fucks sooner. I give people way too many chances.

2. When someone shows you who they are, believe them. Believe them the first fucking time because it will save you a lot of pain. Whether you call this “trusting your gut” or a bad vibe or whatever, follow that instinct. I believe in the inherent goodness of people, and I believe that everyone has something good inside them, so when I see it, I latch onto that and ignore everything else.

I knew the band was taking a toll on me. I knew it. They mistreated me and made it clear that they didn’t care about me (Exhibit A: “Keep your songs to yourself for now. We’re not ready to learn new ones.” Exhibit B: A complete lack of response when I asked about sending my lyrics to everyone and then the guys subsequently singing the wrong thing for backing vocals because, you know, they didn’t actually know the lyrics…), and yet, I stayed. I stayed because I saw the potential of the band. I stayed because I loved the songs. I stayed because I was attached to my lyrics because they are about my life and my sadness and my experience. I stayed because my best friend (former) was in the band and because I really liked the other two guys despite that clear evidence that they didn’t give a shit about me. It wasn’t worth it, because they didn’t make me feel like I was worth it.

3. Know when to walk away. Never, ever, have I ever (#CollegeGames) been able to walk away from an uneven relationship (i.e., a relationship in which I was giving far more fucks than the other person, i.e., basically every relationship in my life). I have never been strong enough to walk away from a situation in which I was being taken advantage of or mistreated. I always give another chance. “This time will be the time, really it will.” I hate myself for that a little bit. It makes me feel weak.

People always leave me because I’m too scared to leave them, or I still believe in them, or I just don’t see it coming and am completely blindsided. I keep giving beyond exhaustion and yet am somehow still surprised when the other person doesn’t give back or finally does leave. Life is reciprocal. You cannot give more than you get.

vvv

I’m not a spiritual human being, but I somehow feel like this is the universe saying, “Okay, Kelly, if you’re not going to kick these fuckers out of your life, I’ll do it for you.” It’s like a cleansing. All of the toxic people are being removed from my life (or, more accurately, very rudely and/or suddenly abandoning me, but you know, same result I guess). Don’t get me wrong, it still fucking hurts. It hurts like hell. It literally, physically hurts in my stomach and my head. But I’m oddly…relieved. And grateful.

One of my favorite songs by the Used says, “I come alive when I’m falling down,” and I really do. I have had a lot of people take advantage of me, treat me like shit, and then leave. And I let them. Because I’m nice. The silver lining? I’m used to it. Does it suck any less? No. It really doesn’t. I’ve cried more in the last few months than I have in years because it’s just been one person after another. But like I said, I’m used to it. Unfortunately, I’ve come to expect it. And I have done what humans do – I’ve adapted. #Darwinism.

This is the survival of the fittest, bitches. And not only am I going to survive, but I’m going to make a bunch of friends along the way because I’m FUCKING NICE.

My Beef with Fat Acceptance

The path I took to creating this post is sort of an odd one. Last night, as I was contemplating my laziness in the morning and its direct competition with my desire to look pretty, I looked up 5-minute hair tutorials on YouTube. The first one that popped up was from a girl named Eugenia Cooney. She is super adorable and seems really sweet. She is also clearly anorexic.

Several other YouTubers have made videos urging people in the YouTube community who know Eugenia to step in and get her help, because anorexia can be fatal if it goes too far. There may be some boundary issues there, as there frequently are with Internet content, but really this got me thinking about a bigger issue. And that issue is the clusterfuck that has become of the fat acceptance movement.

The fat acceptance movement at its core is something I totally agree with. We should not ever shame people for how they look. Saying to another human being, “You’re disgusting,” is not and will not ever be okay. It’s a step further, however, to say that someone who is obese is beautiful, and that they should accept themselves as they are. Somehow, one weight extreme has become something we should accept, and indeed compliment, while the other extreme remains something that is of concern.

I will speak about women, as I am not a man and know next to nothing about men’s body types and sizes. Very few women are naturally smaller than a size 00 as adults. Very few women are naturally larger than a size 14-16 as adults. I do know some women on both sides of the spectrum who are healthy, but in general I would say this is true. If a woman is skin and bones and looks sickly, families and friends intervene, because that person is not healthy. That person is offered treatment in an eating disorder facility.

But if a woman is obese, we’re supposed to tell her she’s beautiful and accept her body? There are just as many health issues with being overweight as there are with being underweight. They may not be as immediately fatal, but that doesn’t mean that they are not still concerning. And indeed, these health issues later become fatal. My beef with the fat acceptance movement is that it has snowballed past stopping fat shaming; it has now become taboo, and indeed unacceptable, to urge overweight people to get help and get their bodies healthy. Given, there are not (that I know of) inpatient treatment programs for overweight or obese individuals, but there is always help available through therapy, nutrition and diet experts, and support groups. And by the way, obesity is not just the 400-pound person who can't fit in an airplane seat -- America is full of obese people who society has now deemed to be the norm. 

I’m speaking about these issues from the perspective of someone who is overweight (and in fact, medically obese), and who has been told again and again that I have a lovely figure. I’m sick of it. I have a beautiful mind. I have a beautiful heart. I have a beautiful face. I have a beautiful sense of humor. And if someone tells me that I am beautiful, I thank them from the bottom of my heart, because there are many things about me that are beautiful. But I do NOT have a beautiful body because I do NOT take care of it. I’ve been told by so many people that I’ve lost count that in my old pictures from college I look “too skinny.” Apparently “healthy” has become “too skinny.” So many people have discouraged me, both directly and indirectly, from getting back to a healthy weight and figure because our society is so brainwashed into thinking that being fat is okay.

It is not okay. Do I think that random strangers on the street (or on the Internet, for that matter) should be telling obese people or underweight people to get help? Probably not. That’s awkward and weird. But as friends and family, we need to stop encouraging the unhealthy lifestyles of those we hold dear. Compliment them on their hair and makeup. Compliment them on their souls. Compliment them on being awesome. By all means, tell them they’re beautiful, because that word applies to way more than just your body. But please, please stop telling people they have beautiful bodies when they are unhealthy. 

Here are a few things I am NOT saying.

I am NOT saying that there aren’t medical issues that exacerbate weight issues (just like there are medical issues that make it nearly impossible to gain weight). Thyroid disease, PCOS, whatever it may be, there are definitely things that will make you gain weight. But there is nothing that will make someone suddenly become obese. Medical issues that cause weight gain aren’t infinite. People don’t just keep ballooning like that kid in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Medical issues can complicate things, but they are not the end-all be-all cause of obesity.

I am NOT minimizing people’s struggles with weight loss. Believe you me, I know that it is a journey and that it is tough. And if you are trying, good on you. I pat myself on the back for trying. I am taking steps to get back to my HEALTHY college weight (because no, I was not too skinny. I ate properly and exercised and was a normal size for my height and build). If you are trying and struggling, you should be commended and supported in your efforts.

I am NOT saying that fat people are disgusting. Just because your body isn’t healthy doesn’t make you a disgusting person. Do I think obese people’s bodies are beautiful? Sorry, no, I don’t. But I’m not going to sit here and say you’re ugly and gross. That would be mean. I’m not going to sit here and silently judge you, because I have my own struggles and my own past, and again, that would be mean. But am I going to actively go out of my way to tell you that your body is beautiful and that you should accept it? I am not.

I am NOT saying that fat people don’t deserve love and sex. Y’all, we all have needs, and we all deserve to be loved by someone. Beauty is much more than the body we are housed in, and everyone deserves to be with someone who appreciates all of the beautiful things about us.

We ALSO all deserve people who will not enable us in our unhealthy lifestyles.

We are in need of a new movement. Instead of Fat Acceptance, which, despite the core efforts of the movement, has turned into Fat Encouragement, what about Health Encouragement? Health Acceptance? Anti-Body Shaming? 

I’ll be honest: I don’t even know how one would have the difficult conversation about the health concerns of being overweight, even with a loved one. I’m sure it’s not easy to intervene when someone is sick with anorexia either, despite more readily available treatment. I suppose I wouldn’t really know how to have either conversation. But I do think these are conversations we need to have. At the very least, we need to stop encouraging unhealthy lifestyles.

I know this might have been tough to read for some people. My intention is not to offend. My intention is to bring a reality check into this world that is too PC and sensitive for its own good, and to inspire a change in the conversation. Health is beautiful. A conversation and movement about health is one that I can definitely support.  

Actual Shit Storm: OOTD Log

Good evening.

My friends, this blog is aptly named. It's time for another One of Those Days logs. Our story begins at approximately 7:30 p.m. on Sunday (relevant) September 18. I had gone down to my basement to do a load of laundry because, I don't know, I'm trying to be an adult or whatever. I went down about a half hour later to switch my first load to the dryer, and the ground was quite wet. There was water, I would estimate about half an inch deep, from the bottom of the stairs all the way over to the door to the backyard, where there is a drain. It was in sort of this oblong oval puddle shape, about 15 feet long and five feet wide.

I honestly didn't think much of it. The basement was also super wet last week after it rained, so I figured maybe the gutters were just backed up or something.

So I put another load of laundry in.

Why. Why do I do the things I do?

I came back down again another half an hour later, and the oblong oval had extended and deepened (That's what she said? I don't know.). I texted my landlord and told him I thought the washer had leaked through one of its little tube-y connection thingies.

Clearly, I am very handy and well versed in all things domestic.

He asked me to go back downstairs and describe the scene to him. I was describing a basic puddle and suddenly I noticed that there were these...little pieces of paper sort of floating around in the oblong oval. It looked like toilet paper.

A moment happened where this sort of slow, sinking realization came over me. The washer had not leaked. The liquid on my floor was, in fact, human excrement. And then I had a second look and noticed all the little lumps floating around. Turds. TURDS. IN MY BASEMENT.

My landlord called some emergency plumber, who said he would arrive between 8 p.m. and midnight. He arrived at 11:45 p.m. Now remember: this is a Sunday night. Oh, hah, and also, my landlord was in Oklahoma. So I had to wait up for the dude to finish.

Plumber boy trekked around in his squishy boots and made me sign things on a suspiciously stained clipboard and thrust some medieval looking chain situation into the depths of the oblong oval in a desperate attempt to frighten the clog out of the pipes. Meanwhile, I'm doing crossword puzzles trying to keep myself awake.

So 2 a.m. rolls around and the dude knocks on my door. He says he couldn't fix the clog.

Fucking phenomenal.

He says they're coming back the next day.

Fine.

I went to sleep at 2:30 a.m. and woke up at 6:30 for work today, feeling like I got hit by the very medieval chain that so cruelly failed to rid me of the shit storm in my basement. I made myself some coffee to assist in the waking up process and poured some creamer in it. The creamer was curdled. The curdled cream coffee fiasco is still sitting in a mug in my sink because, you know, I can't pour it down the drain. And then I accidentally drove past Starbucks on my way to work and had no time to turn around. Yet somehow, decaffeinated and exhausted, I made it through Monday.

After work, I stopped at my gym to take a shower (literally, just a shower) and went QT so I could get out all my bodily functions in a working toilet, and then the second plumber guy came.

TURNS OUT, the first plumber guy broke the fucking pipe in the brand new stack my landlord just had installed. And, you know, he didn't tell anyone about it. So there's just this broken vertical pipe that is now emptying directly onto the basement floor. The second plumber dude got the clog out, which would be great if the pipe with said former clog were in tact. Now, some dudes have to come and jack up the concrete basement floor, pull out the pipe, and replace it.

What. A. Shit. Storm. Literal shit storm.

HAPPY MONDAY, FOLKS.

Kelly's Guide to A/C Free Living

You all probably know that I have been without air conditioning for four days in St. Louis, MO. Fun fact: St. Louis has some of the most extreme weather swings in the country. Fun fact deux: The heat index in St. Louis for the past few days has been 100 degrees.

It's been super fun.

Now, I'm no stranger to the A/C-less lifestyle. Here is a blog I wrote several years ago about my experience studying abroad during a heat wave: [Condition the air, Europe].

I've accumulated some tips to help get you through those hot, steamy nights. Not the fun kind of hot and steamy. The gross kind of hot and steamy where you wake up and think you peed yourself but it's actually just sweat and dear god you are literally on fire. 

1. Take a cold ass shower. It's funny that I phrased it that way because this actually has two meanings. Firstly, your shower water should be cold af. It is everything you want it to be and more. Secondly, use said cold water to ensure the cleanliness of your nether regions. Swamp ass isn't cute. 
2. Next, you should probably call your landlord. She hates you. And even though you usually passively aggressively imply that you also hate her, now is not the time for your childish pettiness. Be kind as fuck because your A/C is broken and you need that shit fixed ASAP. 
3. Put a wash cloth in the freezer. Take out wash cloth after half an hour. Place on face. Revel in the magic.
4. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT cook macaroni and cheese. You will regret this for the rest of your life, even though it is your favorite food. Gas stoves should under no circumstances be utilized when there is no air conditioning. Easy Mac could be the exception. I don't know for sure, but it could be.
5. Have windows that work correctly. Take a pre-emptive strike against the vague possibility that your a/c could one day in the future break down, and ensure that the windows in your apartment/home are, you know, working and also close properly. Otherwise Satan's air slips in through all the cracks and your apartment becomes the eighth circle of hell.
6. Sequester yourself in your bedroom. Sit on floor. Cry quietly to self while pointing fan at nether regions.
7. Go for a drive. Go to a movie. Go stand in the freezer aisle of the grocery store. Find air conditioning and never let it go.
8. Don't have a memory foam bed. If you do have a memory foam bed, you should probably not sleep on it because it will be hotter than Satan's balls on fire. In fact, you should just buy a new bed altogether because your memory foam bed has probably trapped all of your sweaty hot disgustingness and you will never be comfortable again. #catastrophizing
9. Call brother and whine. Brothers are good for this. Brothers laugh at you but also listen to your whining with grace. This is an acceptable trade off. 
10. Maybe don't do laundry at a laundromat where there is also no air conditioning. Dumb. This was a dumb choice that I made. 
11. Do not sleep naked. Naked sleeping is a sticky situation. Would not recommend.

How did our forefathers do it? Mad respect, yo. Happy cooling.

Let's Talk About Sex...Offenses

I’m sitting here in front of a blank word document, terrified to write about the subject everyone’s been talking about. In fact, I do not know if this will ever see the light of day. The Internet, while it is a wonderful thing in so many aspects, has taken away many individuals’ ability to communicate in a civilized way. We have degraded ourselves to attacking and name calling and passively aggressively liking comments from others of the same opinion that make aggressive comments when we ourselves don’t want to be the scapegoat.

I’m shaking a bit as I begin to write this paragraph, out of fear of how these attackers and passive aggressive likers will react to my words should I choose to publish them. Despite my best efforts, I have a thin skin, and while I am passionately opinionated, I would rather have a calm conversation about two sides of an issue than throw something in your face and be attacked for it.

#BrockTurnerIsARapist

“This is what a rapist looks like”

“He is…not even a human at this point. He is a rapist.”

“I hope someone gets him while he’s in there.”

You all know what we’re talking about. These are only a very few of the numerous posts and comments I have seen regarding the “Stanford Rape Case.” The vast majority of comments and posts have been of a similar nature to the above quotes. I have spent several years providing therapy to and interacting with individuals with sex offenses, so I have a unique point of view on this topic that I feel needs to be heard.

Let’s look at some background.

Firstly, we must understand the subtlety of sexual offense charges. Brock Turner is in fact not, technically, a “rapist.” Rape involves penetration of a vagina by a penis. Turner was convicted of sexual assault, which can encompass a great many things, but in his case, it means that foreign objects and fingers were forcibly inserted into the victim’s vagina. They are both sex offenses, but they are not the same. In the same way, child molestation is not rape; possession of child pornography is not rape. All of these sexual offense charges have specific definitions.

“So what’s the difference?” You might think. “He still penetrated her, so I’m going to call him a rapist.”

The difference is in manner of thinking and risk level. In sex offender therapy, we refer to “thinking errors.” These are ingrained anti-social ways of thinking that deviate strongly from the norm and are indicative of criminal behavior. What type of sexual offender exhibits the most thinking errors? It varies, but typically we see the highest rate of thinking errors in sexual psychopaths (e.g., Ted Bundy) and pedophiles. These individuals are also at the highest risk level when assessing for actuarial risk. They are the most threatening to society as a whole because their ways of thinking are so pervasive and not at all amenable to change. Read: they are most likely to commit another sex offense.

“But wait a minute,” you may say, “These are sex offenders we’re talking about here. Anyone with a sex offense is a threat to society and should be locked up for good. They are a threat to our children and our loved ones.”

Sex offenders are the most stigmatized criminal population by far, somewhat deservingly so when considering the nature of the crime. But the data show us that sexual offenders are, in fact, NOT likely to commit another sex crime. The national recidivism rate for all criminals is between 65 and 75 percent, depending on the crime. That means that 65-75 percent of people who commit a crime will commit another crime in their lifetime. Sex offenders have a recidivism rate of between 35 and 45 percent, all the way down to less than 10 percent for juveniles and some first-time or lesser offenders. Interestingly enough, sex offenders are, generally speaking, not a threat to society.

Thirty-five to 45 percent is nothing to sneeze at, but when considering data across all types of crimes, it is important to keep this in mind. It is also to important to consider that, despite what most people think, sex offenders are among the most easily rehabilitated criminal populations. Cognitive-behavioral treatments have a huge success rate.

So who has the lowest recidivism rates out of all criminals? Sex offenders. Second lowest? Murderers. Who has the highest rate? Property criminals and drug offenders. Turns out, the worse the crime is, the less likely it is to happen again. Thank goodness.

So why are people so up in arms about the Brock Turner case? From what I can glean, there are four major reasons. Firstly, his own and his loved ones’ testimonies to keep him from a lengthy prison sentence were conceived as ridiculous by many. Secondly, his victim wrote a touching and heartfelt letter that went viral. Thirdly, the man didn’t receive any type of prison sentence – At. All. Finally, race and class of course confound all of these issues.

I will gloss over the first two, because to me they are not indicative of the larger issue at hand. I am of the opinion that testimonies from friends and family were weighted too strongly during this trial. While these individuals know Turner as a person, they are not knowledgeable about sex offenders and their patterns and therefore their information is largely irrelevant, I think, to the criminal issue at hand.

Unfortunately—and I think I’ll get a lot of shit for this—I feel the same way about the victim’s letter. Both sides were making emotionally-based arguments that, in my opinion, have little relevance a court room. Do victims need a voice? Let me not stutter when I say this: ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY.

BUT.

The victim’s subjective view of his/her perpetrator does not take into account the objective risk of the perpetrator. We must consider what is best for society as a whole, especially when prisons and jails are so expensive (another issue for another time, but still relevant).

According to the family/friends, Turner is an otherwise perfect dude who is amazing at all he does. According to the victim, he is a piece of shit that should never see the light of day again and he is wholly a villain.

Most people agree with the second assessment, but in fact, like most things in life, he falls somewhere in between.

Moving on. Although it was not explicitly stated (I don’t think, but correct me if I’m wrong), the judge is using what I would call “shock incarceration” or “shock treatment,” which is an entirely ridiculous way to address the issue. Turner appears to be of a mid-level risk (it could be mid-low or mid-high depending on variables of which I am unaware). I cannot say this for certain, as I know very little about Turner’s ways of thinking and personality, but this is based on risk factors that are observable.

In my opinion, Turner should have received a prison sentence with required sex offender therapy where he could address any thinking errors or other issues that did not arise in court. Do I think he is of imminent risk to society? I don’t think so, but I don’t know. Should he still have been sentenced despite his possible low risk? Duh. It’s a fucking felony.

Finally, let’s talk about how this dude is rich and white and talented. It’s common knowledge that the justice system is biased against African Americans, especially males. It’s disgusting and hateful, and it has made me very sad throughout all the years that I have worked in corrections. How about poverty or wealth? You bet it plays a part. His swimming scores don’t make a damn bit of difference to me, and I don’t think they did to the courts either, but people keep bringing it up as another reason why he got off….so, there you go.

But here the thing: Brock Turner still a person. In social work, we like to talk about “person first” language (e.g., an individual with schizophrenia as opposed to a schizophrenic). Were his crimes heinous? Absolutely. Is he a disgusting person? It’s very possible. Is he no longer human because of what he did? No. He is a human who needs some help, and a human who got a bullshit non-sentence, but he is a human nonetheless. He is a human who committed a sex crime.

Here’s the other thing: Brock Turner not the reason the justice system is failing. He is a scapegoat. Is the justice system shitty? In some ways, yes. Is it biased? YES. YES YES YES. Is it Turner’s fault that the justice system is this way? No. Let’s choose to fight for African American males as opposed to against white males. It will be much more productive.

Here’s the final thing, and perhaps more of a personal grievance: Wishing ill on Brock Turner because of his crimes is unproductive and disrespectful. I feel many will disagree with me on this, because again, the stigmatization and fear surrounding sex offenders is high, but hoping that he will get raped in jail just because he didn’t get a sentence that is satisfying to you makes no sense. If you’re pissed off about the sentence (or lack thereof), GOOD. I agree. Let’s search for change at a higher level and make a difference for all offenders as opposed to choosing one to defame. Let’s ensure that all individuals get appropriate sentences, black or white, rich or poor.

There are so many issues in this case that I could go on and on for days. Race, class, location, type of crime, stigma, labeling, misunderstanding, myths, fears. I feel I am only scratching the surface here, but I wanted to give a more fully rounded view of this case instead of merely smearing Turner’s picture all over the Internet.

As a woman, despite my knowledge and experience in this arena, cases like this make me a little bit more scared to live in this world. As a social worker and sex offender therapist…I would fucking KILL to work with this dude. And that would make me a human with a murder charge.

Tweaking in Class: OOTD Log

It's been one of those days.

Every Tuesday, I have an evening class at the University of Missouri St. Louis (UMSL) in the criminology department. Yay crime! UMSL, located in Florissant, MO, is about a 20 to 30-minute drive during rush hour from my apartment in Clayton. Here's a map to help you visualize.

Not a bad drive, really. So I'm driving along, listening to the album Bloom and Breathe by gates (what else is new) and I get to the I-70 interchange, where traffic is suddenly bananas.

I'll spare you the boring details about construction and the highway being closed but the basic story is that everyone on I-70 was being re-routed to Natural Bridge Road, where I had gotten off to avoid the traffic on the highway.

Except that the traffic was everywhere and there was literally no escape. There was no other way for me to turn around and get to UMSL. It was too late.

It took me 45 minutes to go 3/4 of a mile. I listened to the entirety of Bloom and Breathe, air drumming like a boss the whole time, well aware but giving no fucks about how crazy I looked.

I left my apartment at 4:50 p.m. and arrived in class more than an hour later. And to put the cherry on top of this shit-show sundae, I looked like a drug addict.

Why?

Well, I've been helping out a photographer friend by doing makeup for her photoshoots, and I was practicing a look I will be doing for a shoot this weekend. This look involves multiple shades of red eyeshadow blended out in a giant circle around my eyes. Despite my best efforts to prevent it, the red still stained the skin around my eyes in a delightfully raw, sickly halo, and so I looked like I was straight up tweaking walking into class.

Goin' up on a Tuesday.