Never Fuck Men Who Are Anti-Abortion

The Brisbane Times reports a Catholic school teacher threatened  to send an email to the staff and parents of the school at which he worked with a colleague if the colleague went through with a planned abortion. He has been charged with 3 counts of rape for threatening to release explicit videos and mar the reputation of a colleague if she refused to continue in a relationship and have sex with him. The man, who remains anonymous (but shouldn’t – the media should let us know who this vile mother fucker is) pleaded not guilty and claimed he took these measures as a “last resort” to prevent the woman from “murdering” his child.

And this is why women should never, ever, ever have sex with men who are anti-abortion.

Men who are against abortion think of women as less than human, because they value clumps of unconscious cells over the mind, desires, preferences, and bodily integrity of full-grown human women. These are the types of men who would sooner sentence 9-year-olds and 11 year-olds to a lifetime of depression, anxiety, and irreparable health consequences than permit her to abort a fetus created out of rape.

Most people do not value the preferences and needs of plants, snails, chickens, or goats, all constituting one form of biological life or another, over the lives and happiness of other people. Essentially then, men of this ilk who have sex with women are comparable to men who engage in bestiality. They have sex with creatures they perceive to be subhuman, over whom they believe they have intellectual and physical dominion, because it is more comfortable and convenient for their insecure egos. To these men, women are human-like, but are primarily vessels for propagation of a man’s DNA. Therefore, when faced with a situation in which the subhuman creature does not yield and succumb to this caveman’s expectations or desires, these primitive men may resort to threats, extortion, and/or violence to get their way in the name of “morality.”

It’s not that these men respect “life” in general. These same men are not using extortion, violence, and laws to prevent people from killing goats or pigs for food, or hunting bears and elephants for sport, all of which have more mental capacity and consciousness than many early stage fetuses. They are not bombing in vitro fertilization clinics to protest the countless fertilized eggs idly sitting around, or even being destroyed in medical laboratories.

Rather, the highly selective concern for “life” is limited to clumps of cells that reside in women’s bodies, and their insistence on using violence, force, and threats in furtherance of propagation of that “life” is limited to coercing women into spreading genes. Disingenuously, the only time such a clump of cells matters, is when the burden, inconvenience, or threat to life and limb must be borne by a human woman. This convenient concern for otherwise indistinguishable cells is without any ostensible or reasonable basis compared to concern for the lives of lions, tigers, baboons, or zygotes in petri dishes, and can only be explained by misogyny.

These men believe that just as a pig or cow on a farm has no inherent right to determine the terms or circumstances of reproduction, neither do women. It is the farmer who has the right to decide whether and when to increase the size of his stock for the good of the herd, and it is men and/or society who have the right to tell women whether and when to reproduce for the collective good of the (human) farm.

Certainly, if one does choose to have sex with such a base man of this mentality, resulting in pregnancy, abortions can be procured in secret, but why even accord such a disgusting person the privilege to begin with? There is no reason on earth to ever fuck someone who first and foremost, does not even recognize a woman’s fundamental humanity and right to self-determination.

Thus, unless one is completely comfortable with fucking a man who fucks donkeys and sheep, one should be just as uneasy as fucking a man who is against abortion. Because to that kind of man, you are the donkey.


she was the straying lover smoking triple purple haze across his street, while watching the lights in his window. a heavy euphoria weighing down the eyelids, limbs, and the air until the night wore thin and she was aware only of shadows converging before a shuddering luminescence, forced to confess to existence, imaginary rapists coming in and out of the dark in handsome form, with mundane names

she took the corner booth at Denny’s, and suffered crucifixion among tattooed waitresses and tired, leering men, and her friend asked

are the holes in the pages symbolism for Tuesday

surveying the diner, a neon box of discord, she said no, just enclosing myself in blank pages pressed between hard covers until springtime erases this momentary solitude

as the sun arose again she noticed the remnants of the day were splattered on the restaurant walls

Desert Trip

The moments are slow when daylight rules and regulates with its majestic restraint and royal logic but

They were driving between canyons and she thought the sky was hers

Imagined she was immortal

Dreamed she had him once

Held a piece of his existence closely, secretly

After traffic had dulled the senses she found her body blissfully floating in a courtyard pool in the middle of the desert while her heart sank to the bottom like lead and when he reached for her hand there was a terrible haze of fragmentation

And she thought

If only this was the expected collapse into a high-density oblivion like before stars explode, a symphony of destruction, and I would still have you and you me and I could catch your scattered pieces of celestial ash in cupped palms grateful that you have been constant through my graceless passage into years



Irvine II

she was walking and the paper bag was ready to tear out of her hand from the weight of the hard rain and daydreaming she absorbed the whole cosmos of the winter day into the folds of her brain, streams of hot hatred searing through sulci and gyri until she walked through the double doors of home

found her place before her computer and received communications in cold flashes from an old high school friend who had killed over 50 people in Iraq. because of the lack of tone she could not tell if he was bragging or repenting but she suspected he enjoyed it and thought of his nondescript, beady eyes, slightly pock-marked face, slender frame, easy demeanor, as she knew him before, and shuddered until she closed the laptop lid and infused into a quiet suburban memory.

she had stars and moons in her pocket and a dull tomorrow which promised to lose itself in a mad Los Angeles rush, broken light slipping through cracks of graceless nights, vanishing with feckless abandon and levity into the thinnest dust on its final course

and he had dead bodies rotting eye sockets and a putrid childhood left in a foreign land.

Alcohol IV

Jack Daniels in hand she wandered to the boy who had insisted on following her about like a puppy dog all night took a lock of his hair between two fingers and told him his shaggy, dirty blond hair was cute. He touched her lips once and she ran but he kept calling her at odd hours. The night was a lonely stereotype so she poured herself Jim Beam and he was there, dressed in all white while his friend analyzed her eyebrows.

Later she felt her veins glowing and clutched his hand, pressed her palms into his bare shoulder blades and had daydreams of a false prince.


He puppets her so that she flushes every thought from her head and

Forces all other sensations from her flesh

Until she falls asleep against his warm chest

She would see him in heaven if she were allowed in those ranks

But one’s own destruction is always more invigorating than another’s

So she continued drowning Tuesday in a silver pool of bitterness and bottled disasters and

In time she will find herself swimming to him, a red salamander in her nostalgic pond

Rural Town II

She grew up in a place where the wind sang at night and

Oppressed inhabitants during the day

With vigor and slight cruelty

But sometimes she would remember the damp southern grass crawling on her skin

And fireflies dancing in sticky summer heat

With fondness for the backbone of her suburban dreams

Alcohol III

Johnny, Jack, Jim, and other insidious lovers waited restless and lonely on the shelves

Until they came to the rescue with acts of self-sacrifice

Painting the night into an unforgivable haze

After scouring the concrete wilderness all evening

Swimming in people and singing of death

She awoke next to a boy and the night had been thick and hot

He had called at 3:00 a.m., said

Of all the carousers in Los Angeles, I had a feeling you would be up at this hour 

The many hours of semi-consciousness and flirtation with a demoted deity were questionable

But she sensed in an alternative universe her other self was trudging in dark blandness and purposeless amnesia

Drowning in indifference

Furniture Project Part 2

We thought we were being frugal by acquiring all this free furniture and repainting it ourselves, but it turns out Wal-Mart works some kind of devil magic and manages to sell brand new, satisfactorily functional, and somewhat stylish bassinets with mattresses for as little as $35. Obviously, a $35 bassinet is not going to be as classic or unique as our finished product, but it’s a fair point for anyone assuming that DIY is always cheaper. We spent about $60 on paint, primer, and sandpaper (though this was for the dresser, nightstand, cradle, and a filing cabinet, with almost half a gallon paint remaining). This was husband’s cradle from when he was born way back in 1983.

It is a sturdy, natural wood, but the color is from 1983, and thus is quite dated. It has served husband and his 3 nephews well, and earned a makeover. Here it is before and after our sanding, priming, and coating it with a lovely bone or eggshell:


I ordered some decals online, but they were not sticking to the paint very well, so the next step may be some super glue or double-sided tape.





Meeting On a Street Corner

Someone told her there were a thousand trillion neutrinos zipping through her body at this very moment, so inspired

She fluttered down the sidewalk until she was face to face with him and

He pulled her into a kiss on the street corner to mark his territory

Puppetted her with small dances while the warm waves in her veins bubbled to slow vibrations of the skin until

She thought she could fly

In the morning when she has to leave she becomes paralyzed with wrath and decay and remembers the hard plague

Again she is a small ghost in the Californian sunshine, wandering unnoticed, forced to walk to the sound of angry music over and over