It was a very philosophical trip. I have lots of thoughts on lots of things, and I’m too tired to get them out at present. Pictures and words will follow soon. I promise.

I get it: you have a lot of money. You also have really poor self-esteem married to a glaring sense of entitlement. These three things have led to the Lamborghini, Jaguar, Porche, or whatever that you are driving that is in mint condition and the new wax job. It also explains why your car is that horrible color burnt orange, pea green, or whatever.

I, on the other hand, am driving an 11-year-old White Honda that isn’t even mine. And has shitty brakes and awful traction. I am not the person to play Asshole Highway Chicken with.

I’m sorry 80 mph on the Eisenhower is not fast enough for you. But I will never get out of your way for throwing a temper tantrum with your brights over how terribly slow I am driving. And I will certainly not brake when you cross four lanes of traffic to get around all the cars and then get back in front of me and try to slow down to 30 mph.

Let me tell you a story of another one of your kind. I was walking through a construction zone in New York City that had a flagger directing traffic and pedestrians. I had the right of way, and Mr. Brand New Jaguar had the stop sign. It was real cute how he faked a slow down, swerved around the flagger, and then slammed on the brakes when he realized that, gee, there was a person there.  A person wearing steel-toed boots. A person who can kick hard enough to leave a boot dent in their shiny new car. A person who may have been me.  Those cars you drive might be expensive, but the siding is cheap.

I will not slow down for your entitled belief that you think the Eisenhower is the Autobahn. I will laugh when you flick me off as if I were the most horrid person on the planet. I will cackle as you realize I’m not slowing down to protect your precious little sports car. And I will reach for my phone and I will call the police, and I will tell them you are speeding 100 mph and driving recklessly and that you are the only burnt orange Lamborghini heading into the city on a Friday night when there are cops all over the highway.

I hope you like your ticket, asshole. It made my day seeing you pulled over.

But here’s a tip for the rest of you Douchebags Driving Nice Cards. When you are driving a really expensive sports car that is so obviously a stand-in for the shortcomings in your life: don’t piss off the people around you. We don’t have overpriced physical egos to protect and we can cost you a fortune for doing something that’s free.

Sincerely,
Wren

The public option? Gone. Expansion of Medicare? Gone. Ability for the government to negotiate pricing, pharmaceuticals, etc? Gone. Guarantees that insurance companies supply useful plans? Never there. Fines for those who cannot buy health insurance? Still intact.

I’m done. Yesterday’s paycheck told me I’ve earned around $6700 this year. The only reason I’m not on food stamps and in public housing is because my parents are giving me a place to stay and my grad school status allows them to claim me as a dependent so I still have health insurance. My grandmother is helping me with tuition.

Under this bill, I’d be required to pay the government a $1500-$3000 fine a year if I cannot afford health insurance. Considering the status of government subsidies is in peril, it’s pretty damn likely I will not have health insurance unless it is employer supplied. I cannot afford that fine. I don’t even make enough money to survive on my own. Next year I’ll be making even less money due to the legal slave labor of student teaching. Oh, right, it’s in the disguise of accredited classes. This isn’t an internship; it’s taking over someone’s job who is still getting paid for that job to the attune of at least $44,000. But that’s another story.

This bill is fundamentally violent. All it does is deliver 30 million new paying customers to a business that doesn’t actually want to provide the services we pay them to provide. Fuck that. Fuck all of it.

I’d have a picture of it, but there’s no way in hell I’m going back outside.

According to the findings, around 25% of people believe that women who have been raped are at least partly to blame because of how they dressed, how much they drank or how many sexual partners they have had.

The survey revealed that:
-38% believe that a woman is partly to blame for rape if she walks through a deserted area.
-37% think a woman is partly to blame if she flirts extensively.
-30% think a woman is partly to blame if she flirts with a man at all or fails to say no clearly.

It also found that 10% of people feel that a woman is completely to blame for rape if she has had a number of sexual partners.

Read the rest of it here.

Chicago’s transit system is generally a much friendlier place than the MTA. I’ve never really had to put up with a lot of things that are just part of life in New York. For instance, I have never-ever been touched inappropriately–on accident or otherwise–on the CTA. I’ve never seen genitals on the CTA either.

Last night, however, was by the far the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been made to feel on any public transportation system. It started on the Red Line. I sat down at around 9:30. About 15 minutes later I felt the prickle of being watched. And then I noticed this guy just staring at me. He looked away as soon as I spotted him. No big deal, I told myself. I’m used to being looked at: I am an attractive young woman after all (not that it makes it okay for dudes to stare at me all creepy like). But again, it didn’t rattle me.

But then he kept staring at me. His eyes kept finding me and the look he had was not the kind I’m used to dealing with. It was all out staring, and without embarrassment at all.  And it made me uncomfortable. I’ve never felt that uncomfortable before from just being looked at.  I felt uncomfortable enough that when we reached my stop, I waited for the doors to open before collecting my stuff and rushing out.

I thought that would be that. I kind of laughed at myself when I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t there. And he wasn’t. I didn’t see him.

I walked up Adams to Union Station to get on the Metra back to Aurora. I got in a car and sat down, pulled out my book, and thought I’d just read for the 20 minutes until the train was scheduled to leave. But then I felt that prickle again. I looked around but nothing. Then I looked up. Sitting above and across from me, and still staring me down, was the dude from the Red Line.

Okay, it’s one thing to be a creepy dude staring at me on a train, it’s an entire different thing to follow me to a different train and continue being creepy. I texted my sister and a friend immediately, then promptly switched cars. Luckily, I did not see him again.

The whole situation really shook me though. I’ve never felt that vulnerable in a public space before. I’ve never felt so violated without being touched. I’ve never felt so threatened without an exchange of words.

I mean, WTF? Why do some men feel like this is acceptable behavior? I am a woman, but I’m a human being first. Don’t follow me and certainly don’t be a creepy fuck about it.

That’s right. My master’s is cheaper than health care. I can’t even come up with anything to say about it.