We drove past the outskirts of town to tour the mines. We entered one of several tunnels cut horizontally into the side of an ancient volcano crater. Above ground we clambered through rubble left behind by the quarrying, picking through piles of rock for clear quartz crystals and amethyst. Anything we could carry home we were welcome to take. I gathered small pieces to share as souvenirs, thrashing my goal of traveling light. We all darted around the man-made hills of sparkling stones like kids in a candy store.
Then my daughter made the most fantastic suggestion. “Why don’t you go to Uruguay.”
Writer Karene Horst shares her twisted perspective on relationships and the scars they leave behind with the first chapter of her novel moving men.
The hordes of women who vote for candidates hostile to human rights or parrot the conservative talking points about: abortion (“why don’t they just keep their legs together?”) or sexual assault (“she could have fought back”) or parenting (“good mothers stay home”); they’re automatically included.
So I won’t officially join the sex strike, and I doubt I’ll cross that picket line. Instead, I’m hoping my scruffy shins send shivers along the spines of every self-righteous asshole who feels he/she/it has the right to dictate what a woman chooses to do with her body.
But as a woman, as a survivor, I can’t help but see a swinging penis as a weapon. As if someone were marching around waving a gun.
I just hate the company for no real reason. Plus, the logo reminds me of a circumcised penis. It could be a cockeyed smile or a whimsical grin, doesn’t matter. I still feel like I’m getting screwed. Boycott the patriarchy!
A white woman of privilege complaining that a BLACK man sexually harassed her? I’d read To Kill A Mockingbird. … I was a bleeding heart liberal. The thought of accusing him, even to just my employer, horrified me.
by Karene Horst, contributing editor – Every morning it hurts to get out of bed. My back aches. My lips scrape against each other, dry and chapped. After my first few limping steps I stumble into the bathroom, bumping my hip against the door jam. Ouch! This is 56. The […]
by Karene Horst, contributing editor – I started eating my canned soup back in February. It’s an annual thing, clearing out my stockpile I’m supposed to maintain for that massive earthquake allegedly poised to level California or sink it into the Pacific. As the emergency response folks suggest, I’m usually […]