Rape

Kesha hit another roadblock in her campaign to be free from her producer/abuser/rapist this week. I’m sorry — alleged abuser and rapist. No one seems to be willing to convict Dr. Luke of the allegations of rape and abuse leveled against him by the singer.

I stared at the picture of her sitting in the courtroom sobbing; I read the news stories, and I cried, too. As a sexual assault survivor myself, I felt a lot of things in that moment. Above all, the ruling was a reminder to me that, as a woman, I do not matter. Not in the eyes of society, not in the eyes of the law. It was a reminder that I do not deserve safety, nor will I be guaranteed it. It was a reminder that my body is not mine, and it never has been.

In today's (Holy Capitalist Bullshit, Batman) news: Kesha. Also, sexual assault, rape culture, and some misogyny thrown in, because why not.

The first time I remember learning what a safeword was, I was sitting in my college dorm, devouring blogs about kink and BDSM. It all seemed so foreign to me, a teenager who couldn’t imagine real people doing any of the taboo things these blogs talked about.

Faced with the threat of gun violence, what could a father do? Raise his voice.

We spend a lot of time thinking about our bodies; our faces, our fat, our bellies. We love them. We loath them. This is a tale of ten tummies.

Hillary Clinton wants you to “believe women”—as long as they’re not the ones who accused her husband of assaulting them.

OK, so Jared Fogle is admittedly a pretty gross person.