Before the world stopped, I worked in events in Los Angeles. I worked for catering companies and event coordinators as a bartender/server/captain/van driver/assistant/buyer/scheduler/therapist/financial advisor/nanny… you get it, I did shit. The events ranged from weddings to funerals, from corporate seminars to award shows. Yes, I worked that event. Yes, I served that celebrity. Yes, Ellen is the asshole everyone says she is.
I wrote this in January of 2015. I am still 5’2”, 100 lbs. And I am still angry. Angry as fuck. But I am as strong as I feel angry. I have to be.
I was raped at 22. I never came forward. It haunts me, the idea that he still could have, or still continues to not listen when a girl says No. Or Stop. Or Please. But I choose to believe he has. Because it is harder to make people change, to make people listen, than to just move on within yourself. I want to believe it was just a miscommunication. That alcohol collided and neither of us were really caring for each other or what the other needed, which is what should be taught in sex education. We should be teaching communication, rather than abstinence and guilt.
But now I’m speaking to you… You know who you are. You read this blog. I see you. Know that. The second you over step, I’ll come forward. And the sad thing for me? Your life won’t be ruined. This is the lamest of threats because it is not your name that will be dragged through the mud, but mine. My actions – which have not been pure or holy or lady-like in the very least will come out, too. I have never been and will never be a “Virtuous Woman”. My name will be done. And your name will live on as a “Well…. he MAY have done this ….” But another man will redeem you. Because that is our world. You stuck your dick down my throat while I was unconscious and your name will live on. You told me you were wearing a condom when you were not and your name will live on. I punched you in your face, clawed at your neck, and asked you to stop and apologized the next day for being “crazy” and your name will live on.
This is our world.
You could one day run for office. And I’d have to stand before a court, I would have to speak out, because you should not be in any form governing a country. It would be my civic fucking duty. But me coming forward? Ever? Would only be a hell of a week for you.
So. Here I am. Asking you and anyone else with questionable character to own up. And fucking change. Be a better person, not a better man—because the toxic ideal of what a man is has to change. I’m not asking what it means to be a woman anymore. I’m asking, what is it to be a man. What does it take for you to feel secure? To feel whole? To feel good about yourself? Because all I’m seeing are sad broken men, raging just as much as women about this changing world. What is YOUR problem?
I was never taught to be, nor am I, a man’s ear. I was never taught to be, nor am I, a man’s support. I am mine. And you, are your own, too. This is your chance, your time, to take a step back and fucking listen, and think. Go to therapy. Figure it out. Because women? Obviously… we’re done with helping you along. You have to be your own, and be what’s right. I am not asking for your power, or wisdom, or heart. I’m asking for your integrity.
My mother taught me integrity. She fed it to me in my pop tarts at breakfast, my PB & J's at lunch, and my meatloaf’s at dinner. Your mother, I guarantee, taught you the same. Integrity is not a man or a woman’s role. It is a human role, but somehow… most men have let it slide to continue their search for power, success, and their “rightful” place. It’s asinine, and cowardly. Give up the search. Join the struggle for peace hope and love like the rest of us. It’s not as easy, but it’s far more rewarding, I promise.
I recognize almost none of what I said is filled with peace, hope, or love. And many of the women who have raised me would be disheartened by my bluntness, my “cruelty” to my fellow man. They’d ask me to calm, to stick to my lane. To continue being the neck instead of the head. But that’s where I come in. I am no neck. The women who raised me, the world I have lived in, created a monster.
They made me a head.
An exploration of the current state of Feminism, and the movie, “I Feel Pretty"
Merriam-Webster defines a manifesto as, “A written statement declaring publicly the intentions, motives, or views of its issuer.” I have views. I have intentions, and motives. I am definitely “an issuer”, and yes, this is a written form of all of these posted on the very public internet. But please, refer to the title.
I, like Snow White's dwarfs, enjoy "whistling" while I work. As I can't whistle, I've improvised. With my impeccable ability to remember an array of tunes, yet forget all lyrics, I have parodied many a melody to fit whatever mindless activity I may be doing.
And now, I will share with you, dear reader, this month's selected collection of songs I have sung, mostly, to myself.
Laura is currently an unsigned musician. For bookings, please don't.
If you are an “avid follower” of this blog, whatever that means, you are familiar with my lack of travel grace and dignity. If you are not, don’t worry about it. (Spoiler: I'm a ball of nerves, and am certain I will die on a plane.)
This year, I flew home to Arkansas for Christmas. I refused to pay the $700+ it was going to be to fly into XNA (Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport), the closet airport to my family’s home, so the next best thing was Tulsa. I got an amazing deal on a round trip flight out of Burbank through Southwest Airlines, so I saved myself by not flying out of the dreaded LAX. In short, I was relieved. My patience was not tested too greatly, every flight was on time, and Southwest Airlines appears to only hire kick ass people. I’m a fan. I support them. (This is not an ad.)
I did, however, walk away with 2 stories of comedic gold, and I had absolutely nothing to do with it, I swear. I was merely an observer in these 2 tales of mayhem, and I bring those stories to you now. So please, fasten your seat belts, switch that phone over to airplane mode, and prepare for takeoff.
It’s 11:50pm, and I’ve just pulled off of the PCH into a very small, side parking lot by the Pacific Ocean. I’m close to the Santa Monica pier, but far enough away that I don’t have to deal with people. I’ve just gotten off work, cater-waiting a New Year’s Eve party at a private home in Malibu. The people were nice. They did not turn on the TV to watch the ball drop. They wanted to spend the end of their year with each other. They let us leave early. I had no other plans. I did not want to be in my car when the clock struck 12, so here I am. At the ocean at night. There’s a couple in the parking lot smoking a bowl, waiting to watch the pier’s fireworks. They acknowledge me with a, “Happy New Year”.
I do not "fly well". I am neurotic, easily annoyed, and I over-pack. There are lines. There are people, everywhere. There are small spaces that, yes, I fit into with ease, but that does not mean I enjoy them. And though I always treat myself to a new book from Hudson Booksellers, I am rarely pleased with my purchase. It’s always a waste of a day, and a loss of control. For me, it is always a lesson in humility.
Holiday travel has never shown me a kindness. Each year, I end up with an 8-12 hour delay, making a should be 6 hour travel day triple into a 24 hour experience of Satan. I’ve seen Satan in an airport. I’ve felt his hot, nasty coffee-breathe. He is not the charming, more beautiful than all the jewels of the Earth Lucifer the Bible says he is, oh no. He’s a lady in an infinity scarf, shoving her 4 bags she somehow snuck onto the plane into MY personal space, and trying to have a conversation with me about how TSA took EVERYTHING from her, and all I want to do is sleep. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world, and I still have yet to get a Xanax prescription.
I always end up crying for, truly, no valid reason. The amount of times someone has asked me, "Are you okay?", in an airport are far too many to count. Once outside of LAX, when I was waiting on the FlyAway bus to get it’s shit together (it was an hour late), I was so spent, I just put my head in my hands and shed a few “woah is me” silent tears, and I felt a hand on my back, and a very calm, “Hey, there. Can I help you?” As I hate being touched, in general, and especially hate being touched unexpectedly, and EVEN MORE SO WHEN I AM “HAVING A MOMENT”, I turned abruptly to the man with a look of deep rage. He retracted his touch immediately, put both hands up in defense, and uttered, “Annnnnd, looks like you want me to fuck right off.” And he LITERALLY ran away. No one should talk to me in airports. I am my worst self.
There’s no question about it, blogging is included in one of the circles of hell.
The term Petty Wap was introduced to me, possibly coined?, by a dear friend of mine who shall remain nameless. I am forever grateful to her for keeping me updated on what the kids are doing and saying these days.
Y'all... I am a 28 year old woman. That's not old, but it's old enough to, as my mother puts it, "know better".
Here are some texts I've sent to 'gentleman callers' where I haven fallen short of "knowing better".