No Bogan Pig Hunters

Internet dating is a precarious mine field and often results in more misses than hits at the 

best of times. Trying to internet date in Darwin means literally putting 'No bogan pig hunters' on your profile introduction, and hoping for the best.

With this in mind, I'd been talking to a guy for a couple of days and he wanted to meet up.

I've always been pretty happy to go on at least one date with someone so I agreed. He wasn't bad looking and he seemed to know the difference between there, their and they're.

He suggested a pub and I got there first. As I was sitting, waiting, I was scanning other people in the area and trying to see him before he saw me. He walked in and said hi. I said hi back.
What I should have said was: "why the fuck are you wearing a beanie in Darwin?"

He had suggested the pub because it had good food. I was pretty excited about that, but as a waitress walked past with an average looking steak on a plate and he muttered 

"mmm, smell those chips!" I began to realise that he didn't actually mean GOOD food. 
Ok. Ok. I'm a snob. But he was just being such a bogan.

He walked to and from the bar like he had a helium balloon in his chest and was struggling 
to keep it contained. It was weird. The conversation was boring. I don't think he asked me a single question about myself and I was trying to think up reasons to leave. Then he started talking about how he wants to go pig hunting and I was just like.... that's it. I'm out.
Like, come on...I've actually put fucking effort into this date. I have dressed up and come
out and am asking you questions and trying to be funny, and you've rocked up wearing a fucking beanie and are trying to have a conversation with me about pig hunting. WHEN I WAS SO SPECIFIC!!! I LITERALLY COULD NOT HAVE BEEN MORE SPECIFIC.

So I left. And then when I walked outside there was a man lying beside my car, in the gutter with his pants down by his ankles, so drunk that he was frothing at the mouth. So I rolled 
him over, called 000 and sat by him until the ambulance arrived.
Ah... Darwin.

The time I attempted to give a boy my number

I was out riding my bike one sunny Saturday morning. I was riding into town to pick up the car that I'd left parked there the night before. It was a hot day, but it had literally been years since I'd last ridden a bike and so I was riding fast and enjoying myself. Enjoying my dorky helmet considerably more than I should have been.

When I finally reached my car I dismounted and unlocked the car. I opened the boot, put the seats down and started trying to put my bike in.

'This...'

I realised rather quickly.

'This is why people have bike racks on their cars'.

I must have struggled with the stupid thing for about 15 minutes, pissing off a bunch of cars who were waiting to take my parking space. Finally, I admitted defeat and decided I would have to ride to my friends house and ask him for help.

It was at that moment that I noticed the bike chain had fallen off...and I had no lock to secure the bike in place and drive for help. It was also one of those rare days that I'd decided I wouldn't need a phone either and had left it at home Well great. JUUUUUST GREAT.

I was stuck.

Fortunately for me I noticed I was parked out the front of a surf shop. In my head I was like 

'Surfing = skate boarding = bike riding'. Joining dots I figured were obvious, I decided to go in and ask for help. I walked up to the manager and asked,

'Does anyone in here know how to put a bike chain back on?'

'err...I think one of our guys should be able to'

She calls out and a guy walks over. He was like... 

This gorgeous, 6'+, muscly, bearded, dark hair and blue blue eyes greek adonis.



And of course... I was like...

And in standard fashion this scenario starts playing out in my head; That I'm the main character of a rom com. This is the day before Valentines day and 'oh god! (cue damsel in distress) my bike!'

(cue unrealistically attractive/skilled/kind gentleman) 'Don't fret miss. I'll save you'

It can't be true. And yet... it is. It's happening. 

THESE THINGS APPARENTLY HAPPEN IN REAL LIFE PEOPLE.

So anyway, of course, like a gob smacked idiot, I just stand there awkwardly and stare as this gorgeous boy fixes my bike. 

He's even smiling up at me an trying to talk to me, and I am just too intimidated and out of my element that I don't answer with anything remotely intelligible. When he's finished I literally just snatch the bike out of his hands and ride away. 

Like... I didn't say goodbye. Didn't say thank you.

Ran away. 

So I get back to my mates house, and I gush to them,

'The guy! The guy at the store! He was SO CUTE! He fixed my bike! He SAVED ME. SO. CUTE.  SO GOSH DARN CUTE. WHY!!??? WHY DID I RUN!!?? Why did I FLEE???'

As I endured their teasing I sat there and thought; what is wrong with me that, as a 24 year old I couldn't even hold a conversation with this guy? and so as Valentines Day rolled around I began to convince myself that I had to go back. That I would forever regret not doing this...and what was the worst he could say? No? I have a girl friend? 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained I reasoned.

So, the next day, Valentines Day, I went back.

When I walked in the door I was trembling. So nervous. So very, very nervous.

I glanced around the store and saw him talking to some customers. I could have browsed the store like a normal person might, waiting until he was free. Instead I stood there like this

Just waiting... like a complete creep until he was free. And then finally. FINALLY he was, and trembling, I advanced.

'Hi' I said.

'Hi'  He replied.

'You fixed my bike yesterday' I said.

'Yeah' he agreed. 'I did'.

There was a bit of a pause...and in that silence I freaked out. I opened my mouth again to speak and the next thing I said was;

'I was too sweaty yesterday...but I've had a shower since then'

...'too sweaty'...

...'too sweaty'...

...'too sweaty'...

WTF Elyse.

So then...mortified, I mumbled some garbage about buying him a drink to say thank you, threw a piece of paper with my number on it at him and  RAN AWAY before getting an answer.

I ran away from him. Again. After telling him I have a sweat problem. 

Like a big, sweaty coward.

So... I'm sitting in my car. Recuperating. Trying to understand why I would deliberately  commit treason against myself, and my phone buzzed with a text.

It was an unknown number. 

It was him.

'Hi Elyse. It's Harrison from the store. 

You caught me off guard when you came in earlier.

I'd actually love to take you up on your offer to get a drink later today...

...however I'm still only 17'

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I made an utter fool of myself over an overdeveloped minor.

People Not To Trust

There's been some debate recently about who, as a Nation, we should and shouldn't trust. Who we should and shouldn't let into the country etc etc...

Well, to help put an end to the conversation I have put together a definitive list of key traits and characteristics of individuals who are inherently untrustworthy.

People not to trust in these times of terror and heightened security measures.

• People who, when slicing cheese and don't cut themselves an extra slice to eat while they're putting the block of cheese back in the fridge
• 
  
• People who keep tomato sauce in the cupboard
• 
  
• People who keep Vegemite in the fridge
• 
  
• Security guards who smile too much
• 
  
• People who don't perform the perfunctory 'thanks' wave when you let them merge
• 
  
• Pedestrians who don't perform the perfunctory 'sorry' wave and increase pace when on the crossing
• 
  
• People who don't consume a hot beverage in the morning
• 
  
• People who just straight up say 'No' without even considering to put a polite, tentative 'Yeah...' in front of it
• 
  
• People who maintain too much eye contact
• 
  
• People who continue conversations while in a public bathroom
• 
  
• People who poop in public bathrooms
• 
  
• People who say “remind me to...” without putting an 'ooh!' in front of it
• 
  
• People who don't like tea
• 
  
• Car drivers when I'm a pedestrian
• 
  
• Pedestrians when I'm in a car
• 
  
• Teachers who smile too little
• 
  
• People who don't lick the spoon or bowl
• 
  
• People who drink milk ON the use by date
• 
  
• People who wear hats indoors
• 
  
• People who have never eaten nutella or milo straight out of the jar
• 
  
• People who don't like animals
• 
  
• People who walk really slowly in the centre of the narrow footpath
• 
  
• People who leave a bathroom stall without warning you that they've used up the last of the toilet paper
• 
  
• People who arrive too early 
• 
  
• People who don't like pizza
• 
  
• People who haven't seen Lord of the Rings
• 
  
• People who don't know how to put appropriate graphics to their posts

The Battle of The Monkey Bars

The coursework was stressing me out, the impending shadow of my first TEWT was coming up fast and the looming threat of going on offensive operations (offops) was going to have to be dealt with sooner rather than later. My main stress however during the first few weeks back at the college during II class was my fitness. More specifically, my complete and utter inability to do monkey bars.

You know how when you’re a kid and you’re freakishly, disproportionately strong and flexible, and there’s practically nothing in the realm of athletics and gymnastics that you can’t do? Even then, I’d never been able to do monkey bars…. And this had never disappointed me. I’d never felt the desire to even try. They hurt my hands and got me nowhere fast. Why bother even trying? Never in my life did I ever suspect that my career might be impeded by my utter inability to do monkey bars.

At RMC the monkey bars were my own personal demon. A source of hindrance, tears and frustration. They were part of a test every single cadet has to complete in order to prove that they are fit and mobile enough in order to play sport.

No monkey bars, no sport.

I remember the first time I heard this I just stared and blinked at the PTI. Stared, blinked heavily and breathed deeply, like some dumb cow in a field. The logic didn’t, still doesn’t compute. I remember thinking, Sooo….You’re telling me that because I’ve never been able to do monkey bars my entire life, my parents should never have let me take to a netball court? Because…not being able to do monkey bars meant I was obviously so unfit that I was a danger to myself and those around me? IS THAT WHAT YOU ARE TELLING ME??

These weren’t even regular monkey bars either! Positioned halfway through an exhausting obstacle course, these monkey bars were made of steel, notoriously slippery, and they inclined up.

I strategically dragged out my duties as Orderly Officer the day that my whole class had to attempt the test. This way I knew I wouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of watching each and every one of them swing past me triumphantly.

I couldn’t escape them forever though. My time to attempt them came the following Tuesday and the inevitable happened. I grasped the bar, leaned out as far as my ridiculously long body allowed me, reached out as far out, to as many rungs as I could possibly reach whilst still having my feet firmly planted 

It always ended the same way. I lifted my feet, dangled for a mortifying, pathetic second, and then dropped onto the pebbles (what sort of sick person put a pebble bed underneath monkey bars anyway?) 

I had failed, and thus began my long stint in ‘Remedial PT’.

Remedial PT is a funny thing. Every Tuesday and Thursday the entire college lines up into their chosen sports to hear any messages for the afternoon before proceeding to go play those sports until dinner. If you’re on remedial PT you stand in front of everyone else, like, they literally stand in a horse shoe on either side of you, staring at you, while you’re dressed in the ugly brown T-shirt and baggy navy shorts that you lived in whilst on boot camp in III Class.

 You stand there, silently, on show for everyone to judge. And they are judging you, because if you don’t have a visible injury, you don’t have a valid excuse for being on remedial. You’re automatically regarded as obviously either not fit enough, too fat or you’re a (dare I say it?)…a linger. A malingerer, the absolute worst thing you can be at the College, other than being ‘Jack’. 

Being on remedial PT for the first few weeks after Christmas break was always alright, because there were always quite a few people who had let themselves go a little and hadn’t passed either this physical test or that, so you were never alone in your shame. However, after the weeks passed, the remedial PT numbers dwindled, and soon there were only about three of us left. Standing in the middle of the square, twice a week, every week, being judged, all because I couldn’t do the stupid monkey bars.

Battleblocks came and went, our first ever TEWT experience traumatised me, and then passed. Still the monkey bars defeated me, week after week. I ripped the skin off my palms on those monkey bars. Fell flat on my face in the pebbles whilst attempting those monkey bars. Months, literally months had passed and I still couldn’t get more than half way. 

People were offering all sorts of suggestions. 

“Spin your legs like a bicycle”

“Try swinging from one bar to the next one like an orangutan”

“Here…watch me!”

The amount of people I had to watch successfully and effortlessly navigate the monkey bars was...more than merely painful, it was a tiny bit soul crushing. I was beginning to think I had something fundamentally physiologically wrong with me.

TEWT season came by AGAIN, and this time there were two assessed TEWTS. It was not a good week. I was still feeling the pressure of my ‘improve, improve, improve’ diagnosis from my previous battleblock and I stressed out again to an inappropriate level over this latest TEWT. I distinctly remember feel physically ill when presenting, and trembling as I wrote from the sheer adrenaline. 

I passed, but I couldn't allow myself much time to enjoy the victory. Coming up was my regular weekly torture session with the monkey bars and I was beginning to feel the regular feeling of dread settling into the pit of my stomach. Something akin to feeling constipated. 

This time however, something had changed. One of the PTIs, a young corporal, had taken some serious time to sit down with me and talk me through exactly how to do these goddamn things. He helped me pin point some exact failing points in my technique.

Point number one: Try, for the love of god just try to attempt any form of passable technique. Don’t just hang there and flop your body around helplessly like a hippopotamus sized, bat.

I ran through all the tips for success over and over in my head for weeks. Use the momentum of your body, don’t stop moving your hands, if you don’t have the strength to hold up your swinging giant monolith of a body, try to hold it as still as possible and just go. Don't be a hippo bat. Go. Go. Go. 

I practised on normal, wooden, flat monkey bars twice a week, every week…and finally, one day, I made it. My hands were buuuurning and half the skin peeled off again, but I’d done it. Now I just had to do it again, on the incline one, fast enough to beat the stopwatch (I don’t think I mentioned before that the bloody test was TIMED).

So that following Tuesday, I stood in front of the entire College in my remedial PT uniform whilst messages were being read out, and then when we were dismissed I headed up to the monkey bars with a Sergeant who looked at me, utterly exasperated and said, “Well? You gonna actually do it today?”
“Yep” I said.
“Like… actually? Should I even bother timing?” He wasn’t a mean guy, but he was trying not to roll his eyes, I could tell.  I don’t even begrudge him for it. He’d been the one who’d been present during my initial test. He knew just how atrocious I was at these.
“No” I told him firmly. “I want you to time me”.

I felt like a woman possessed. I went to the starting line and waited.
“Ready, set…GO!”
I ran up to the wall, highhips,bootstoglutes,twofootlanding

Bam
Ran to the fences, ducked and weaved between them like a mad thing,
Bam
Ran to the sand pit, watched the required distance line sail away behind me. Landed.
Bam
Ran to the big metal logs, awkwardly waddled through them
Bam
Ran to the monkey bars, grabbed them, kept my upper body taunt, began shuffling my hands one rung after the other.
GOGOGOGO
I was half way. My hands were burning
GOGOGOGO

I was four rungs from the end. Four.
And I stopped.
I just couldn’t keep going, didn’t have the strength to reach up and out four more times. I was at my stupid, fucking limit. I dangled there, momentum gone, beyond frustrated, waiting for my grip strength to give out on me when the Sergeant yelled out
“Swing your legs!”
In sheer desperation I swung my legs. They are long enough that they reached the platform of the other side.
They reached the goddamn platform. 

With my precariously perched heels taking a tiny bit of my body weight, filled with the adrenaline mothers sometimes have to lift cars off their babies, I managed to awkwardly waddle (with my hands) the rest of my body in to the ledge...and in to victory.

BAM

I jumped down from the bars, elated, but I wasn’t done yet.
I ran to the balance beam, had never had an issue with it but today, nearly fell off because of the adrenaline, the utter jubilation. I got to the end, lowered my body and performed the correct safety jump at the end onto the pebbles.

 
BAM. 

Done. 

I’d done it.

I turned around and looked at the sergeant. My stomach clenched….ready to be cut down.

“You did it!!” he yelled

“I…I did it!?”

“You did it!”

“What was my time?”

He paused for a second, looked at his watch, grinned and just said… “Never mind! You did it!”

I laughed REALLY UNCOMFORTABLY LOUDLY and then I turned really purple in the face and kind of awkwardly started crying a little bit. 

What had begun as this great celebration turned into this really awkward moment of him looking away and me trying to pretend I just had this really rare sinus disease that flared up suddenly and made me sniff a lot, inappropriately.

Anyway. 

So that's the story of the Battle of the Monkey Bars

Lest we forget.

TEWTs (Tactically Exhausting Warrior Tests)

Or, more officially known as 'Tactical Exercise Without Troops', they are such a cause of stress and anxiety in the college that I feel compelled to write about them and try to explain them. Maybe now next time we have a conversation and I try to tell you how bad the current TEWT is, you may be able to understand a little better.

So firstly, imagine a game of chess. You've got all your pieces and they all have differing abilities and rules about where they can and can't go, right? This is basically what a TEWT is. You're given a scenario and you're told what assets you have to help solve it.

You're also given an opponent to play against. However imagine that the opponent has about three times the amount of pieces you have, and every single one of those pieces has a different set of rules and abilities to your own pieces. They're stronger, better equipped and on the whole, more powerful.

So now, imagine that you take away the chessboard and you have to now just remember all these variants and rules off the top of your head. You have paper you can write it down on of course, but it's basically like playing chess theoretically. You've just got to remember where everyone is and what they're doing and what they can do. The number of pieces you have, the opponent has, and all their individual abilities.

From this, you've got to come up with a plan that works and then, you have to write it down in a way that PROVES it works. It takes roughly 8 hours to do.

So from there, 8 hours later, exhausted, brain strained and haggard, you hand it into an instructor who, despite the fact that your plan makes sense and you've obviously analysed the situation...they decide that your air assets, while effective, don't necessarily guarantee cut off of the enemy withdrawal. And because of that one tiny differing of opinion of something you wouldn't know unless you've actually been in operations, working with air assets in real life, you fail.

If you fail the wrong TEWT at the wrong time you could find yourself doing an extra 6 months at the college doing 'retraining'.

So... TEWTs. In short. They suck.

Neville Howse

There is a house in Duntroon called Neville House, even though it’s actually Neville Howse.

How to describe Neville House…

It’s a little feared by cadets because not only is it the place people are sent when they are injured (and who wants to be injured?) but often it seems like people are sent to Nevs and then just…disappear. It’s like the black hole of RMC. A black hole full of mish mashed injured people who have been left behind by their class, some who have even have seen multiple graduations pass them by. Unfortunately because the vast majority of the cadets don’t know the names or stories of those in Nevs, or understand anything which goes on in there, there is a general understanding that the cadets there are ‘lingers’.

‘What do they even DO all day? Do they do ANYTHING? Are they allowed pets? I bet they have pets. I bet they all have cats’.

In fact, before I was sent there myself, my only interaction with the people of Nevs was that I saw them from afar, limping around, forced to be the creepy, cat loving caretakers of the college (much like Filch) while the rest of the Corps are out on battleblock.

I had this vague idea in my head that they all looked a little bit like this.

A few weeks spent with them over May revealed to me the surprising truth...

...Most of the cadets in Nevs are sexy, genius, nerd ninjas.

It really is the most bizarre phenomenon. It’s as if some sick twisted vortex has sucked its way through the college and injured only one specific type of person. I don’t think you could pluck ten people from anywhere in the college (or the world) and have them be as uniquely intelligent, hilarious or as into martial arts as the Nevs cadets.

Being in with the Nevs crowd was a reality check for me.

I couldn’t really sit there moping about my ankle for 4 weeks (like I initially wanted to) when there were people around me displaying such extraordinary resilience and determination. How could I complain about my stupid temporary injury to the people dealing with the reality of upcoming surgery? Or their frustration with the system and debating whether or not to push to try enter the Corps again…to start with a new class again for the second, or even third time.
Their positivity and strength put me and my whingyness to shame.

To those who are curious, the things I did in Nevs was a lot more of what I thought Duntroon was going to be like. Gym twice a day, with lessons all day in between. We did public speaking and presentation skills, military history lessons, comms and navigation practice. Every Friday involved some form of ethical debate and a more thorough look at military law and skills in order to one day manage soldiers and people. It was less about tanks and destruction and more about thought and interaction. Becoming a good leader not necessarily through the ‘Alpha male’ style of leadership, but through your own distinct style.

I loved it.

So this post here is a little tribute to some of the best people I know and some of my favorite memories of the past 4 weeks:

1)    Being excluded from ‘Boys night’ with Sully, and then turning ‘Girls night’ into the superior (and arguably more masculine) evening

2)    Anderson stepping up for the debate at the last minute and proclaiming that ‘Since the 7 day war there has been relative peace in Israel’

3)    Being told off by Mocha for lending a pair of ADF issued runners… chastised for falling short of being like Jesus

4)    Any time Gash said anything during that debate

5)    Gains

6)    Ando’s ‘vegan powers’ and the 11 seconds.

7)    “Hey…Ando called. He wants his string beans back”

8)    Sting Pong

9)    The constant and unapologetic bus tossing

10)  Sleep overs with Sully

11)  The Great Chess Tournament of ‘15

12)  Luring in small children with dinosaurs

13)  Progressively removing Sully’s letters from her room and hiding them around the building

14)  Gash’s name badge mysteriously turning up in a block of ice

15)  Conquering Westeros

16)  Punning with Newman

17)  The Great Escape plans

18)  Finally oscillating with Tyler

19)  Being the moonboot crip parade

20)  The frequent besmirching of Princess Leia’s reputation

21) The extraordinary jaw line of Hall

22) Elrick's argument... because facts can, and always will be debated.

<3 to you all

I am not an "opportunity"

I was walking with a male friend the other night to get to a particular shop. We were following the maps on his phone and it led us the quickest way which just happened to be through an alley. It wasn’t a particularly threatening looking alley, and there were a lot of people around at either end but there was no one inside. Just garages and dustbins. Instantly, I made a nervous joke; “aaaand this is where we get mugged”. His answer surprised me. He said,

            “Oh. I didn’t even realise this was an alley”.

Now, acknowledging that being raped in an alleyway is not statistically the most likely scenario when it comes to sexual assault, I still couldn’t help but think, ‘how lucky for you, that you don’t have to assess your particular levels of vulnerability at various times in various locations. How lucky that you don’t have to walk around the block – however far that might be - in order to avoid certain areas that I feel, as a woman, I’ve been trained to identify and avoid. How lucky that you don’t ever feel threatened by something so simple as an alley, or an empty carpark, that there probably won’t be someone lurking there who might view your temporary isolation as an opportunity’. 

A conversation yesterday with a female friend brought up another point.

            “If I go out for some drinks with friends and a man approaches me, it should be enough for me just to say ‘thanks but no thanks. I’m not interested’. Why is it that the only definitive way to make him go away is to tell him that I have a boyfriend? My own unwillingness should be enough. It shouldn’t take the threat of treading on another mans ‘turf’ to make him stop. He should stop out of respect for me, not my boyfriend”.

I went out with a group of girls about a month ago. We went out to dance.

Not to pick up.

To be with each other.

Some of these girls had crossed the country to be with me that night and I wanted to dance with them. Not random men on the dance floor.

As expected, some men came up and tried to dance with us, and I don’t begrudge them that at all. This is modern pickup culture and people meet all the time on the dance floor, but on this particular night we weren’t interested and we made that very apparent.

We were in no way rude. We simply kept to ourselves, dancing in a tight circle, and when men came up to us, we simply moved somewhere else to dance.

After about an hour a man came up to my friend and poked her in the chest.

“You bitches think you can just walk in here? You think you’re so much better than everyone else? Just cause you’re a woman and just because you have a vagina, you think you own the world? You pack of stuck up bitches. You think you’re too good to dance with us”.

I’m not normally an angry person, but those words made me see red. Because how dare he feel that he was entitled to anything from us? How dare he feel cheated because…god forbid, some women didn’t want to dance with him. Somewhere somehow, in his screwed up version of the world, the fact that we were dressed up and out to have a good time automatically meant that we should in some way be putting out to him and his friends. Because… duh. That’s what short dresses and make up mean, right?

All these incidents by themselves wouldn’t have been enough to make me write this post…because the sad thing is that they’re everyday occurrences. They are things that women deal with on a daily basis that I’d bet some men don’t even realise (and I only say some, because I also know that I have many very sensitive and thoughtful men in my life).

But I decided to write this post because two much bigger incidents happened to me this year, and I’ve decided that remaining silent about them doesn’t serve to help, educate or change anything. If I had to go through them then I’d at least like them to affect change in some way or form.

One evening, a few weeks ago I went down some stairs the fast way and ended up doing some serious damage to my ankle. There was only one person who saw it happen and he came straight over to help me back to my room. I was leaning heavily on him the whole way, utterly unable to put any weight on my ankle. As far as movement was concerned, I was pretty helpless. When we got back to my room I thanked him and said goodnight but he insisted on coming in with me and helping me take off my shoes. So I let him in and I limped to my bed. I heard him close the door behind us and even through my pain it registered as a strange thing to do. He helped me take my shoe off and made a show of looking at my ankle. Suddenly he was sitting beside me, stroking my hair, telling me how beautiful I was. At that point I realised that somehow despite being crying, injured and helpless I’d turned into an opportunity for him. So I stood up and on one foot, hopped over and herded him to my bedroom door. I opened it …and he reached around me and closed it again. I ended up pressed up against my door with this guy trying to put his face in my chest. Thankfully (and purely because I’m a tall, reasonably strong woman) I managed to open the door again and throw him out of the room.

I confronted him about it the next day and his reaction was.

“Oh don’t stress about it. I’m sorry. I was drunk”.

No.

A few months ago, a best friend of 10 years utterly betrayed me.

I was at a party at his house and decided to stay the night on a mattress in the living room. When I woke up there was a camera lying next to me. I was the first person awake, so to pass the time I decided to look at the happy photos which had been taken during the previous evening. What I found instead were several pictures of me, asleep, with my friend standing over me, holding his penis up against my body and face.

No.

I want to make one thing here very clear;

It is not my responsibility to make sure I am not harassed or assaulted.

I am not obligated to wear (or not wear) certain things in order to deter harassment or assault.

I am not obligated to have to behave in a certain way in order to deter harassment or assault.

I should be allowed to walk down any street, at any time, without weighing up my likelihood of being raped.

I should be afforded the respect of being able to say no.

These are my rights, and no matter what I do, what I wear, or where I walk, I should never be considered anyone’s ‘opportunity’. 

The responsibility to make sure that I am not harassed or assaulted lies with those who identify that they could.

It is our responsibility as a community to change this culture, to tell these stories and hold those responsible accountable. To educate our sons, brothers and friends about what the close women in their lives go through, and hope that sometimes even a conversation about this can make changes for the better.

I am not a distant blogger or columnist. I am not an article in a newspaper or an extreme, ranting feminist. I am your friend and colleague and in some cases, family, and these things have happened to me in the past six months alone. I would like to also make a point that they have not happened because I work in a male dominated environment. These events occurred outside of work, in the regular civilian world.

I realise, of course, that this entire post is directed to the wrong audience because I believe that my life (and my facebook) is full of quality, respectful, kind men - the men reading this blog post. But if this post generates one positive discussion between people who may not have realised how inherent and deeply ingrained this behaviour is in modern society, then I feel like I have justified the time it took to write it. If one person can address these issues with a boyfriend, brother or friend, then that makes me feel like these events at least had some sort of purpose.