More Saddy Sad Stuff

Depression’s biology skews your vision and distorts reality. It sprays a fog that makes the afflicted person feel that nothing is ever good enough, that people hate you or you hate them, and that you will never feel secure in your world, no matter what.  You feel a horrible, self-punishing sense of isolation and loneliness. And yet, you can appear outwardly perfect, seeming to have it all together. You frenetically play-act while you feel your soul is dying. ~ Jean Kim

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

Y'all know that I struggle with depression.

We've talked about it before.

Lately, I've been feeling a little, well...

Nothing specific is really wrong, per say.

It's not like I'm moaning, "Oh, I'm depressed about my weight/my finances/my dead kitties/my oddly shaped pinky toe." Sure, sometimes they contribute to my fussiness, but overall, it's just a sense of dread, and it sits there like that proverbial cool bitch from high school, telling me that I'm, like, totally lame.

That dread tells me that everybody is somehow more than me. They look more perfect. They earn more money. They live more fully. If I do something, it's automatically inadequate, while, when they do it, they're nothing short of more gloriously glorious than I could ever imagine.

Depression tells me that the following are facts: People look at me and see lost potential. They think I could be prettier, be thinner, be more responsible with my money, write better, do more in school, be a more thoughtful sister/daughter/wife/cat owner.

In short...

But here's a more important fact:

And that includes depression. One of the biggest lies that bastard tells is that you're all alone. To that, I choose to say, respectfully, "Bullshit." I'm not alone. The statistics tell me that. Apparently, some 2 million out of 2.1 million people experience depression. Okay, it's not that bad. And I totally made that up. But seriously, a lot of people do.

So, if you're one of those people, I want to share with you the quotes that help get me through my days.

The first one is my absolute favorite, and I repeat it to myself on an hourly basis.

Seriously, it is. I can't mark my progress against or according to the progress made by those around me. Which leads me to my second favorite saying.

It just doesn't work. And I think that's because...

We envision that we should be rich, thin, in love, publishing bestsellers, working as the boss, and not ever shedding a bit of sweat while we do it all. But the reason this doesn't work is simple: Our picture is skewed. Which leads to this next truth:

And even worse, some days, when I really, finally, totally think I have it all together, and I know exactly how much I'm worth as a person, somebody looks at me askew, and I'm right back to the depths of despair. I'm still learning the most important lesson of all...

Again, and like usual, I know that nothing I've said (or meme'd) here is novel, unique, or earth-shattering. But it's what's been on my mind, and I wanted to share it, regardless, because I'm a narcissist, and I think that every thought that goes through my head is one that needs spread to the world. And on that note, I will leave you with the best cure for depression I've encountered thus far:

My Life in a Polygamous Cult

My dad disappeared when I was 10.

Ok, so, he didn't vanish forever. This isn't that type of story. 

Instead, he only dropped off the grid for a couple of hours so he could secure a compound for the family clan.

Yup. This is that type of story, so I hope y'all are cool with polygamous cults, or else things are about to get awkward.

For two full months, I served as an adolescent acolyte of Southeast Iowa's most prominent sect. Or at least, I think it was the most prominent. Few public rankings exist for these type of things.

Anyway, as a cult, my family had it all -- dozens of roaming children,a bricked-up compound on the outskirts of a backwoods hamlet, religious fervor, and ritualistic feline slayings

Oh, you are bothered by the dead cat bit? Well, welcome to the party, but we're just going to have to deal, because dead cats really are the make-or-break component in my cult's success.

Anyway, back to my foreboding first sentence: My dad disappeared when I was 10. Upon his return, he held in his hands the deed to a 5-story tall brick school building deceptively named Pleasant Lawn. It came with five acres, a bus barn, a playground, a baseball diamond, a gym, and a boiler room that supposedly housed a janitor's ghost.

Now, normally when I tell people that I grew up in a school, they give me this adorable little nod, as if to say, "Oh, how quaint you think you are. You grew up in a little one-room clapboard school house, and now you think you are Laura Ingells on the prairie.

Um, no, haters. It's not like that at all, so stick your smugness right back up your shorts. This school loomed above the surrounding corn fields, a stark red testament to what brick builders with no real imagination can create when the school district offers the contract to the lowest bidders.

This is the family compound.

No, really. This is true. My dad bought a school. On a whim. At an auction. While my mother treated us kids to a picnic in the park.

Surprising? Not in the least.

When something ticked my father's fancy, he pursued those follies with the same determination as a hungry lion would a plump preschoolers. But with less bloodshed. At least, I think so. To my knowledge, my father has never consumed a toddler.

Anyway, let's skip way ahead and introduce the villain of our story. And yes, that villain is, in fact, exactly what you'd expect him to be -- an Iowa church deacon who served in a prominent position on the local historical society board. He was the Boss Tweed of this small town's version of Tammany Hall.

This man, who we'll call Dean Bean, had served as the only real competitive bidder my father encountered in his auction for the school. Bean's vision encompassed converting part of the school into apartments for his proft, with the remainder of the building serving as a historical museum of sorts, also for his profit. My dad was just there on a whim, so, yeah, you can see the ideological bifurcation there.

One day, as my mother stood in the grocery line, the man behind her started chatting. In Iowa, this comes as no surprise. We're Midwestern, and we're nice, and when you're in a grocery line, you ask the person in front of you how their day's going. That's just what you do, unless you're a rude son of a bitch.

My mother and the man discussed the weather, how the weather affected the crops, how the crops were impacting the farmers, and other, you know, typical small talk. Then the man leaned in and whispered, "Did you hear about the polygamous cult that moved into Pleasant Lawn school?"

Turns out, my mom was top diva of the harem in question. Or, at least, Dean Bean (who you had to know was the grocery line guy) assumed she was. Except, he didn't even know who "she" was. Despite his self-promoted position of town crier, he knew little about our cute little cult out in the corn fields. He was so bad with reconnaissance that when the queen of the whole thing stood in front of him, he hadn't a clue. I'd feel sorry for him, if he weren't such a meddling, petty dick. 

For the first weeks that we occupied the school, Dean Bean told everybody who would listen that my father had four wives and 20-some children. In fairness, on any given day, that many women and children could be on our property. My grandmothers came over often, as did my aunt, and several lady visitors from our church (which, for the record, was one of those houses of worship that believes in speaking in tongues, faith healing, and snake handling. Okay, not the snake handling. That's just ridiculous.) And with seven children on the property, sleepovers could rapidly mutate into any adult's worst nightmare. 

As with any good plot arc, thus enters the necessary flat character -- you know, the one known only for a single characteristic that drastically shifts the direction of the story. In this case, this character is a wire hair fox terrier named Curly.

The one thing Curly was known for was cats.

Cats. Cats. Cats. Cats. Cats.

He adored them. But not in a snuggly way. The dog wanted to suck off their faces and then lick the kitties' souls from their eye sockets. He was a sick bastard, that Curly. A sweetie if you didn't belong to the feline species, but bring a cat into the picture, and it was a blood bath up in there.

Curly wandered the countryside, seeking kittens to kill, and he'd proudly plop his pulpy prey right on our frot doorstep, a trophy intended to prompt praise. The murder sprees became such an issue that my aunt Julie (who owned this monster) finally consulted a vet as to what could be to prevent future slaughter.

“Easy,” the vet said. “The next time he kills a cat, take that cat and tie it around Curly’s neck. Leave it there for a week. By then he’ll never want to see — let alone kill — another cat again.”So my aunt tied a dead kitty around Curly’s neck.

And he loved it.

He used that cat as a freaking pillow and snoozed away contentedly on the bloated belly of his hapless victim. He flung it to and fro, jumping in joy that he had his own dead cat to carry around as a notch in his proverbial kitty-killing belt. That cat was his badge of honor.

Which is why, when Dean Bean came to church the following Sunday, Curly pranced right up to the man and rubbed the cat against the man’s best trousers.

“Cult!” Bean yelped, pointing intermittently at my family and at Curly. “Satan worshipers! CULT!”

And thus our polygamous cult status was forever cemented in the town of Mt. Pleasant, Iowa, which, aside from our family’s debauchery, is best known for it’s field thresher festival.

I don’t know whatever happened to Dean Bean, but I’m assuming that the sacrificial cats Curly offered up on our behalf accomplished our goal of turning him into a warthog. Or, even better, a cat, in which case, he and Curly should be meeting soon.
 

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! There's an announcement in here, yo!

Just a month ago, my husband was all like, "Go get a job, lazy bones," and I was all like:

But then I wanted to buy something, and the SandMan was all like, "Not with my money, Miss Thang," and then I was all like:

Then, I got a job, and I was all like:

Then, I got to my job (as a reporter at a good-sized daily newspaper), and I was all like:

And then, I actually started working my job, and I was all like:

No, seriously, I forgot how HARD work is.

It's like 9 AM hits, and I'm all like:

Mind you, my new job is fantastic. The people are fantastic. The actual work is fantastic. And the pay is... well, if not fantastic, then at least pretty damn good in the world of journalism.

But, working 40 hours is just HARD.

Especially when you've been out of the game for 4 years. Here I am, a journalist, and I'd forgotten AP style and turned in an article with Oxford commas. I was all like:

(Except for the boss part. My boss knew what she was doing.)

In all seriousness, Monday was glorious. It was the best first day I've ever had. But by Thursday, I was in tears on the drive home about how I'd never, ever, ever be a good journalist ever again in my whole entire life. And to top that off, I'd never, ever, ever be able to do it all.

How am I supposed to hold down a job? And go to school? And study for the GRE? And prepare grad school applications? And keep up with my diet because I need to get my body ready for having a baby? 

Oh, like how I just threw that last one in there? I'm not preggers. But I want to be. And the SandMan and I are going to start trying to have a little SandBaby. And yes, we're trying this against the odds of supposed infertility.* It should be a fun ride (and yes, there's a pun in that somewhere).

But back to me.

Nothing reduces you to tears like an editor saying that it's obvious that you've "been out of the game for awhile." And nothing elevates your mood like an editor reading your first story and saying, "Oooo! Good job." And nothing, and I do mean nothing, is more satisfying than being a newly-employed worker watching the clock hit 5 on a Friday.

In case you were wondering, I was all like:

But Monday's right around the corner, and I could be all like:

But I've decided that I got this. I can do my job. And I can do it well. I was born to write. (I think.) And I am awesome at school. And I've got this grad school thing in the bag. And this baby thing... well, we'll see.

In the meantime, I've decided to be all like:

So, I guess I'm done now. So, it's time to be all like:

*Don't worry, y'all. More will follow on this subject.

Everyone's a Critic

“If a person is not talented enough to be a novelist, not smart enough to be a lawyer, and his  hands are too shaky to perform operations, he becomes a journalist. ” ~ Norman Mailer

Today I re-enter the world of newspapers.

For four years, I've been a recovering journalist, and I just slipped off the non-writing wagon. I got a new job, and in a matter of minutes, I will step back into a newsroom, and I will be alive again. Because that's what it is to be a reporter.

Phones ring. Police scanners shriek. Reporters rustle through their notepads, looking for a quote to plug into their story. In one corner, an editor belittles an intern for misspelling a source's name, and in another, a photographer bitches about how his/her picture deserves front page placement rather than page 4 of Section B.

If it's not a deadline whipping reporters into a frenzy, then it's the next interview to land, the next source to find, the next hot tip that will result in the big award that will finally justify the late hours, the lack of social life, and the constantly overdrawn bank account.

Newsrooms crackle with chaos, and I can't wait to be back.

I used to be a hard-news reporter. I've covered stabbings, street brawls, kidnappings, murders-for-hire, and a case where someone forked their family member in the eye on Thanksgiving. Of course, I've done other things, too. I've spoken with veterans of World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I've followed a gaggle of Abraham Lincoln lookalikes. I've ridden the bus with casino-bound retirees (and  survived.) I've exposed environmental scandals, brought to light city corruption, dug through tax increment financing jargon, and went hunting for ghosts with local psychics. (We didn't find any.)

Hell, I even pissed off somebody so much that they created a website dedicated to hating "Bekah Porter Of Bad Journalism."

No, seriously.

See the full article here, because it's funny.

Despite the haters, I loved my life as the hard knock, old-school Lois Lane.

But now I'm going to be a features writer at a community newspaper, and that's just grand. Nothing makes me happier than sitting down with somebody interesting and chatting about their glorious life and learning about what makes them tick.

Besides, this features position is sort of a return to my roots. Because, well, I might have started my journalism career as a childhood Christian columnist.

Think of "Dear Abby..." if Abby spoke in tongues, got slain in the spirit, and had been baptized a minimum of six times.

I worked for a small newspaper -- Kids Incorporated -- with a readership of seven (my parents, my siblings, and me.) The staff was small, too (my parents, my siblings, and me.)

What we lacked in skill, talent, and spelling basics (check out how "Incorporated" is spelled in the paper's banner!), we made up for with chutzpah. Sure, it was printed with crayon, and sure, the reporters rode their bikes around town to get such scathing scoops as "Cat Found Dead in Ditch; Dog Suspected." But we cared about our work, and we wanted to produce the most interesting content possible for our readers.

Which is why I decided that Kids Incorporated needed an advice column.

Using my ingenious brain, I came up with the title: "Dear Abby." Of course, my little blurb had hearts. The real Abby didn't use hearts. She didn't have the balls to use hearts.

Notice how all of my answers basically just say "Pray about it and be nice."

  

While I wrote columns, my brother wrote sports.

How awesome is the last paragraph? "(Jordan) changes his numbers, (and) his team gets fined instead of him. I don't think it's fair. That's all for today."

My older sister did the classifieds.

A beautiful sized barn? Didn't know there was such a thing.

My younger sister wrote... well, I'm not sure what she was going for, but it's pretty freaking awesome.

I love two things about her "article." First, "My office is in my room behind the drawer thing," and second, "Just for kids! No adults may have this newspaper!"

And, finally, there's my absolute favorite page -- the weather and comics, written by yours truly.

"Forcast: Jesus is healing all over the country!!"

I found these papers a couple of days ago, and it only seems fitting that I share them as I go off to live my childhood dream. Young me would be proud, I think. 

Anyway, happy Monday, y'all! Hearts and all that jazz! Hopefully tomorrow I'll be able to post this:

Sabbaticals Happen

I've been away.

All bloggers say this.

And then they promise, promise, promise that they'll be back, for real this time.

Welp, I've been away, and I promise it'll probably happen again.

After all, I have a life.

And sometimes that great, big adventure I'm loving means that I have to take a sabbatical from things I enjoy -- like sharing my life's ups and downs with y'all. But that's okay. I know that my dedicated readership of two (my mom and me) (oh, hell, who am I kidding? my mom doesn't read this!) has missed me.

So, I've returned.

With news.

First...

My beloved Booger passed away. He was a dapper ol' dandy, and he wore bowties like a champ. He was a cuddler and a serious boon to the reputation of cats everywhere. It happened quickly and painlessly, and both the SandMan and I were there with him in the end. Yes, I've cried and sobbed and teared up and every other sort of sad snuffling possible, because I miss him like crazy. 

I mean, seriously, don't YOU miss this face?

Well, I do. And if that picture doesn't do it, then this one will:

He was a reader, and the best book club buddy I've ever had:

Now, enough of that. 

Because, second...

The day after poor Boogs kicked the proverbial bucket, my idiot husband decided that it was a good idea to abandon me with my grief and instead go camping with a friend. While he was packing his sleeping bag and alcohol and preparing for a good time, I was bed-ridden and demolished. I missed my kitty.

So, while the SandMan was away, I decided to play... 

Alas, meet Mycroft!

He likes to read, too!

No, for real, while Chris went on his all-bro weekend trip, I drove to the local animal shelter and adopted the first cat I saw. No, seriously. Mycroft was literally the first cat I saw, and it was love at first sight. It was for Khaleesi, too, who is getting along just swell with her new friend.

While the three of us fat cats chilled and waited for the SandMan to come home, I wondered if I had perhaps made a mistake adding to the family without my big dude's permission. So, I decided to do what any logical girl would... I pretended I didn't do it. 

The SandMan came home, and I just sat on the couch. Mycroft came running out, and SandMan was all like, "Um, what the hell?," and I was all like, "What, dear? I don't see anything." This went on for a good five minutes.

But everybody became buddies fairly quickly.

For the record, this is a picture of my husband RIGHT after he got home from the camping. He smelled SO HORRIFIC. Like, hand to God, I caught a strong whiff of him straight when he walked through the door. I think this picture illustrates how badly SandMan smelled, as Mycroft is doing his best to get away from him.

Let's see... other news.

I chopped off all my hair.

No.

I don't think you understand.    

It's ALL gone.

Here's my before:

Here's my after: 

All in all, it's been a long couple of weeks. Now, of course I did more than lose a cat, get a cat, and cut my hair, but I doubt you're interested in hearing about my West Wing marathon or how the maintenance man fixed the hole in our bathroom ceiling or etc., etc., etc.

But if you are, message me, and I'll tell you in detail how Sam Seaborn is my least favorite character and how faulty dryer ventilation can lead to ceiling leakage. It'll be my pleasure. 

My Long Run to Narnia: May Aslan Give Flight to My Feet

I used to run.

I wasn't on the cross-country team, and I never managed a marathon, and I certainly couldn't have done that kick-ass trail running where people sprint up mountains.

But I could pull off a mile or two or, at my peak, three. 

Then I got lazy, got cancer, and got fat. 

But now that I'm in remission and not battling complete exhaustion and nausea daily, I've decided that I'd like to get back into the running groove. Which led to this conversation last night between me and the SandMan.

Me: When my fat ass is no longer fat, I want to be a long distance runner. Like, a real one. Who does marathons and shit.

SandMan: Uh huh. Sure you are.

Me: Hey! I know it's not going to happen overnight. It's a journey.

SandMan: A real journey would be to Narnia.

Me: The hell you say?

SandMan: I'm just saying... It might be more realistic for you to go to Narnia than it is for you to run a marathon. Besides, when people say "journey," I think of fantastical adventures. You know, like to Narnia.

Me: I would loose 100 pounds by tomorrow if it meant I could go to Narnia. I would literally cut the fat off my body with scissors if it meant I got to go to Narnia.

SandMan: Let's call that "Plan B."

Me: I WANT TO GO TO NARNIA, DAMMIT! 

#YesAllWomen #NeedToEmbrace #TheF-Word

So, the bandwagon just lumbered by, and it lingered long enough for me to jump on. 

#Yes #IAm #AddingMyTwoCentsAbout #TheTwitterHashtag #YesAllWomen.

Maybe some of y'all have been hiding under a rock this week. In that case, let school be in session. On Saturday, a young man (who I will NOT reward by typing his name) went on a shooting spree at a California college, killing six beautiful people before terminating his own life. By Sunday, more than 1 million tweets with the hash tag #YesAllWomen circulated, as people sought to raise awareness about violence against women. 

I don't blame you if your automatic response is "meh." Let's just be honest. Mass shootings are getting that common, where we no longer reel back in shock. Instead, we say, "Another one?" 

So, why is this different?

Because this troubled terrorist went on a shooting spree because he hated women. Yup. You read that right. 

He actually created a manifesto that said, "Women represent everything that is unfair in this world, and in order to make this world a fair place, women must be eradicated." Then he went on to recommend herding we of the female sex into concentration camps and killing us. 

Go ahead. Chalk it up to a deranged, mentally ill man who was failed by the healthcare system. Obviously, at least part of this is true, but the things he was writing ring a little too true, paralleling the misogynistic slant society often takes. As the New Yorker so elegantly put it, "(this man's) hate of women grew out of attitudes that are all around us... perhaps more subtly, it suggests that he was influenced by a predominant cultural ethos that rewards sexual aggression, power, and wealth, and that reinforces traditional alpha masculinity and submissive femininity." (Read the whole article here.)

Now, chill your Cheerios, folks. I know that some of you are reading this and cringing. You're waiting for me to start yelling big scary words like "patriarchy!," "heteronormative!," or "misogyny!" Welp, I'm not even going to go there. Because there's a bigger, badder word to tackle.

Yes, I'm talking about the F-word.

I am a feminist. And if you have half a heart, you are, too. That's just pure fact, folks, and I'm sick of people pissing around when it comes to that word.

It's doesn't mean that you do this:

Not that this is the safest bra-burning choice...

It doesn't mean this is your beauty motto: 

Yes, that's hair on her legs...

 It doesn't mean you feel this way about anything with a penis:

Although, in fairness, I've known a few...

It doesn't mean that you want every lady you know to be into other ladies:

Bad news for the hubby... I noticed the puppy straightaway...

It doesn't mean that you're destined to end up like this:

Although, I'd argue, what's so wrong with this? IF ONLY I could be so lucky!

And it DEFINITELY does not even come close to being anything remotely resembling this bullcrap: 

Just... just... no, sir. Stop tripping.

This is what feminism is:

Oh, sure, Bekah, you say. If only it were that simple, you say. Like such a huge concept can be summarized so neatly, you say.

Fine. If you don't believe me, maybe you'll be more open to Commonsense Corgi:

Now. We've got that out of the way. We've got you to maybe, maybe, maybe start to think that the F-word applies to you. But you're not quite there. Welp, let me give you some not-so-subtle encouragement.

Do you have a girlfriend? A mother? A sister? A daughter? A friend who happens to be a woman?

Oh! You do? Interesting...

So, do you want your daughter to go through college, find a great job, be superb at it, only to find out that she gets paid a mere 72% of what her male counterpart earns?

Damn right, she does!

Ok. That was a low blow, evoking both kittens and your kid. I admit it. But seriously. It's a real question. Should women earn less? Should women make up more than 50 percent (that's right, MORE than 50 percent) of the world population but only fill less than 20 percent of political seats? Should girls be HIV-positive at a rate 5 times that of boys, because girls are more likely to be raped? Should women make up 80 percent of all refugees, largely because genocide uses sexual violence and rape as weapons of war? Should a woman die every 90 seconds, mostly due to the fact that gender-based discrimination prevents her from getting the proper education or care she needs? Should girls be forced to be sex slaves or child brides? Should 70 percent of the population of people living in absolute poverty be women? And finally, should girls actually be less likely to reach adulthood because they have been aborted, killed, undernourished, or neglected because of their gender?*

Should these statistics be so unsurprising that you barely even look at the next image, because you already know what it's going to say?

I'm not kidding. I want an answer. Should women be treated worse than men?

If your answer is yes, then congratulations. You're an asshole. But if your answer is no, then you subscribe to the notion that women are people, too, and they deserve to live and thrive and help create a better world just like men can. Holy crap, folks! That's feminism. No, really, let me give you the definition that literally comes from the dictionary: "the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities."

So, ask yourself: Do I care about my daughter? My mother? My sister? My partner? Am I a feminist? 

Look at this, and then answer:

THAT is the whole point of the #YesAllWomen movement. It's a cry, a plea, a complete and total humbling moment of begging folks to pay attention to the fact that women are humans, too, and they don't deserve to be treated the way they are being treated now.

No, not all men treat women like crap. Plenty of feminist men work their bums off to make the world a better place women. But enough people do treat women terribly, thus creating a serious problem. Which is why these tweets (a collection of which I've included below) are striking a chord and raging across the Internet.

I wish I had a wonderfully fresh perspective that would make you change your mind and claim your inner feminist. But you and I both know I haven't said one damn new thing in this post. 

Because this conversation has been happening for more than a century, and it's all been said before.

Lucretia Mott said it when she argued in the 1800s for equal pay for women. Sojourner Truth said it when she contested that all women --- of any race, creed, ethnicity, religion --- deserved to be treated equally among each other and among men. Susan Anthony said it when she demanded that women should have the vote.  Elizabeth Cady Staton said it when she insisted that women should be able to own property. Margaret Sanger said it when she fought for women's right to birth control. Margaret Atwood said it when she wrote about the weight of the patriarchy.  Gloria Steinem said it when she decried sexual assault against women.

It's all been said before. And it will be said again.

Now, it's only a matter of people listening and deciding to act.  

Peace out. 

TWEETS WORTH READING:

 -- Men’s greatest fear is that women will laugh at them, while women’s greatest fear is that men will kill them. -Margaret Atwood #YesAllWomen

-- Because in about 30 states, rapists whose victims choose to keep the baby can get parental rights, like weekend visitation. WTF #YesAllWomen

 -- #yesallwomen because apparently the clothes I wear is a more valid form of consent than the words I say

--#YesAllWomen b/c when a woman is assaulted we ask what she did wrong rather than standing up for her 

-- Because society is still more comfortable with people telling jokes about rape than it is with people revealing they have been raped #YesAllWomen

-- Because even a 140 page manifesto by a mass murderer isn't enough to convince people that misogyny kills #YesAllWomen

-- Because this is a society that still teaches its girls how not to get raped instead of teaching boys not to rape #YesAllWomen

-- #YesAllWomen Because guys don't have to text their friends telling them they got home safely

Please, please, please visit twitter.com and read more. Please.

ARTICLES YOU SHOULD READ ABOUT #YESALLWOMEN (via feministing.com):

White guy killer syndrome: Elliot Rodger’s deadly, privileged rage by Brittney Cooper at Salon

Let’s call the Isla Vista killings what they were: misogynist extremism by Laurie Penny at The New Statesman 

Masculinity, Violence, and Bandaid Solutions by Miri Mogilevsky at Brute Reason

Misogyny is Poison, and You’re Drinking It by Jess Zimmerman at The Archipelago

Elliott Rodger and the High Price of Misogyny by Danielle Paradis at Dispatches from Paradis

What Elliot Rodger Said About Women Reveals Why We Need to Stamp Out Misogyny by Liz Plank at Policy Mic

What a close read of the Isla Vista shooter’s horrific manifesto, “My Twisted World,” says about his values—and ours by Jeff Yang at Quartz

Elliot Rodger and Men Who Hate Women at The Belle Jar

Rightbloggers: Santa Barbara Killer Elliot Rodger’s Sexist Rants Have Nothing To Do With Sexism (Or Guns) by Roy Edroso at Runnin’ Scared

How ‘Pick-Up Artist’ Philosophy and Its More Misogynist Backlash Shaped Mind of Alleged Killer Elliot Rodger by Amanda Marcotte at The American Prospect

Pickup artists argue that “Game” is the solution to Elliot Rodger-style rampages. Here’s why they’re wrong by David Futrelle at We Hunted the Mammoth

The Power of #YesAllWomen by Sasha Weiss at The New Yorker

Elliot’s Entitlement by Cassie Goodwin at Brainy Femme

Elliott Rodger and the Price of Toxic Masculinity by Harris O’Malley at Paging Dr. Nerdlove

*All statistics used in this article came from the World Health Organization and RAIIN.