How To Wage War With A Woman, A Satirical Guide For The Serially Misogynous

This is a flash fiction--a short, short story, or rather, a comedic thing I scribbled quickly after a commercial on the radio made me giggle to myself. Actually, the commercial was a little hard on women, which wasn't funny, however it got me thinking that its sexist implications might be more palatable with my own personal seasonings to improve their icky flavor. Couldn't decide on the title for this "story", too many ideas. For now it's the title of this post. . .

"How To Wage War With A Woman, A Satirical Guide For The Serially Misogynous"

Step One:  Even if, and especially when, you know her exact weight, always assert that she appears 20 to 100lbs heavier, especially if she's wearing a new outfit or--most importantly--she appears to have actually lost weight.

Step Two: Even if, and especially when, you know her exact age, always assert that she appears 10 to 50 years older.

Step Three: If she wears a new hairstyle and/or hair color at the office, make jokes all week with everyone else about transsexuals. If at all possible, each time you encounter her, stare at her chin while you verbally contemplate whether you need to shave later on.

Step Four: If you are male and attracted to said woman--who shall henceforth be referred to as The Target--however, she's clueless, unavailable, or uninterested, make pointed lesbian references in the background whenever she talks with a female friend. Alternatively, if you are female and simply wish to demonstrate your internally justified misogyny, refer to Step Three with an amplified frequency especially if you should see a member of the opposite sex taking interest in The Target.  *Note: Misogyny need not be justified either internally or externally.

Step Five: If, and especially when, The Target appears to be stressed or bothered (undoubtedly by the application of steps One through Four), casually mention that your great grandmother had identical symptoms before her unexpected diagnosis of either schizophrenia or dementia. Either is fine, so long as the condition is mental. Reiterate that everybody in the family was utterly relieved when death finally freed grandma from the insatiable appetite of mental illness.

Step Six: WARNING: This Ultimate Tactic should only be applied at the failure of all aforementioned steps. Hack into her laptop or smartphone and, perhaps via the forward-facing camera lens, acquire images of her undressing. Post these photos to a human trafficking website with an accurate profile of the target, including her phone number so she can be contacted. Email the link to the target's profile to every office employee, specifically the boss. Note #1: Ass photos are best, so the installation of a toilet cam may prove useful. Note #2: Step Six in its entirety is highly unlawful and should only be applied in times of righteous desperation, when the need to declare war is greater than the need to avoid jail time. Note #3: Be aware that the tactic in Note #1 of Step Six may negate the tactic of Step Three.

Final Notes: These rules apply to anyone, male or female, who would chance to wage war with that fairer champion of the sexes, the unapologetic, the territorial, the proud, the nurturing yet wrathful . . . woman. Please do note that these uniform tactics do not automatically spell victory nor are they guaranteed to rid the individual permanently of the target, however there is a 50/50 chance of witnessing a curious psychological event wherein The Target either succumbs to these declarations of war, i.e., completely surrenders in the form of striving to please the terminally displeased, or The Target nurtures a monster within whose roar awakens those in slumber whilst they walk.


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Thanks for visiting. For more playful and provocative discussions do be sure to stop by this blog's sister; she wears glasses and respectable button-down blouses, listens to Chopin and reads Dickens as opposed to this sister's thrift store tank tops, punk matted hair, coffee, and cigarettes.

Classic Movie Review: Lifeboat

   
I’ve been on a classic movie trip lately. I find them absolutely comforting. Lifeboat, produced by Alfred Hitchcock, written by John Steinbeck, is absolutely wonderful and is for good reason required watching for certain college courses in film-making. I’d seen it about a decade ago and got a wild craving to watch it last night. The message hit me from a different angle this time and compelled me to write. Movies from this era are magnificent studies of the human character, the human condition as a whole. This one conveys that even when our empathy lands us in a cruel place, it doesn’t mean we should harden ourselves and withhold this singly human phenomenon--empathy--from peers lest the world go to Hell in a handbasket while we all vacuously watch. The message at first seems dismal, but what I believe we're seeing by the end of this movie is that the will to do good and to be good is indomitable.
   
    In the midst of World War II a group of unlikely castaways are blasted from their freighter ship and collect themselves onto a small lifeboat as it drifts on the wide open sea. Among the brilliant cast is Tallulah Bankhead, a total treasure (even in her I Love Lucy episode she's awesome). She plays the voice of reason as the first fiery debate begins to divide the crew: an enemy German drifts to the boat and needs help. Of course, because they're Americans at war with Germany, most the crew wants to throw the man overboard and let him drown. The Englishman onboard, levelheaded and philosophical, reasons with them that what they propose is murder and this would make villains of them, too; it isn’t God’s way. (I wondered if their humanity would have suffered without this character! I love him and it comes as no surprise that the entire film couldn’t have thrived without him). They must take the German to justice, he says, because he’s a prisoner of war. Thus begins their adventure, a fight for survival to find shelter from the vast unforgiving sea with no supplies to sustain them, no compass, and an enemy in their midst.
   
    Despite the tragedies and casualties that ensue, Tallulah Bankhead is a source of uplifting wry humor as they drift for endless days and nights, hungry and thirsty and mistrustful of the German, ever hopeful that they’ll find their way back to civilization--in their case, to the English-owned territory, Bermuda. It is due to her character that they come to rely upon the enemy’s directions, as she’s the only one who speaks fluent German to communicate with him. She’s a rather strongly defined woman in this role, which likely accounts for the not-so-strong first member of the crew to go overboard--the sad and fragile Mrs. Higley who was on her way to America with her infant. That they tossed her dead infant overboard proves too much and she jumps into the sea--either in an act of cowardice or sorrow--and while the crew is distracted with her sacrifice it’s revealed that the German isn't what he seems. He stows a secret compass from everyone, and while they thought themselves headed towards safety, he actually leads them into enemy territory.
   
    As everyone readjusts, they get to know each other. John Kovak, the only one who never wavers in his suspicion of the German, valiantly strips the writer Connie Porter (played by Bankhead) of her ego. He accuses her of only wanting to popularize herself by writing a novel about the war. She challenges him by showing that she finds his distaste in her career choice ruggedly charming and that she is by no means a stranger to survival. She knows full well by observing people--the way that only a photo-journalist can--that the German is the only one of them who appears--somehow--capable navigating the sea. She knows whether they fear him or not, they’ll need to rely upon him. However, because Kovak’s comments linger with her, Connie quickly grows less concerned with herself and more with the care of others as she realizes that no one comforted poor Mrs. Higley before she died. Of course, she still maintains the attitude that I think only Bankhead could supply a character; she wryly insinuates that poor Mrs. Higley did jettison wearing the mink-fur coat that Connie lent to her. (I have read the report that Tallulah did not wear panties on the set, which, somehow isn't so hard to believe about this elegant lady).
   
    At length one of the American survivors, Gus, suffers a gangrenous leg that needs to be amputated and the enemy happens to be the only person onboard with surgical experience. A storm of mistrust and anger brews over the prospect of the German performing the amputation, and we get to know poor Gus who loves his unfaithful girl back at home more than himself. Again, Bankhead is brilliant here, brilliant. She comforts Gus by lying to him that his girlfriend, a hot dancer, would want him to have the surgery despite that he won't be able to dance with her anymore. Connie only wants to help Gus; she prays afterward that God forgive her the lie. Bankhead’s comedy is ladylike, casual, subtle. She helps us to laugh rather than cry and shocks us by remaining lusty and quick-witted despite the circumstances. Even during the grimmest situation she's a ray of comedy that refocuses us on the human condition, the one that, by varying degrees, each of the crew members contributes to. This is John Steinbeck and Alfred Hitchcock and a superb cast at their finest.
   
    If you haven’t seen it, I cannot reveal the ending of a truly great film like this (find it on Wikipedia if you must) except that its message is timeless and, while seemingly grim, is a positive declaration for the importance of never abandoning hope and never reflecting bad behavior no matter how badly it may have hurt, no matter the scars it might leave behind. Highly recommended.
   
   

Book Review: Until Justice is Done

This book is from 1994, so it's a tad dated shelf-wise. This doesn't detract from its accuracy on the facets of modern crime-solving such as computer stuff (minimally) and good old-fashioned sleuthing and DNA evidence (mostly).

Normally I stay away from suspense thrillers. I can deal with horror--that doesn't frighten me. It's the expedition into the minds of these characters, which are usually murderers and rapists, of course, that I cannot cope with; being a woman, I'd rather not know. But that's just the point of this review. I forced myself to read this book that I gain the insight that all women should, unfortunately, have.

So. I highly recommend this book to all women and to their loved ones, and the ones who care for them. Christine McGuire is spot on with her harried prosecutor, a woman, whom, in the end comes face to face with the rapist/murderer the police have been desperately searching for and she's been seeking to prosecute. She brings brilliant insight into the mind of a psychopath who carefully chooses his victims with disturbing stalking tactics that make you angry, yes, but that's part of her form of enlightenment. McGuire's writing is so convincing it's nearly impossible to believe it isn't based upon a primary or secondary experience. And she's creative; the only thing her killer doesn't do to murder a victim is put poison in her food. The dialogue, the tension, the inevitabilities--it's all portrayed convincingly enough: The protagonist's emotions conflict over the constant barrage of so many rape/homicide cases. Even she does not want to live in this book. Yet she resists exhaustion with conviction.

Every woman should read this or something similar to it. It should become required reading for all school-age girls. Isn't the HPV vaccination required of high school girls? Why not mandatory classes on this kind of knowledge? It seems it's fine for girls to have sex and possibly contract diseases, but it's irrelevant that they learn how to defend themselves in case said sex becomes violent or non-consensual. It almost seems like we have a nation (and perhaps this is on a global scale, as well) that's determined not to have strong female heroes.  

Shades of Doppelgänger: Dislike Revisited

Some things are unbelievable coincidences. Others are deliberate incidences. I’m still stuck between the two on this new conundrum: Have you ever read two books by two different authors that read like they were written by the same author? As for my former review of Fifty Shades of Gray, I suppose I should’ve aimed it at the book’s less popular, older sibling.

• Annabel Joseph’s Comfort Object, 2009
• E.L. James’s Fifty Shades of Gray, 2011

Both stories by these two different authors follow a rather disturbing and substantially similar pattern in which an obscure, desperate, “nobody” woman plays a protagonist who’s propositioned to become the slave of a wealthy, secretive, psychopath man who goes by the name of “Gray.” James’s leading hot psycho is Christian Gray; Joseph’s, Jeremy Gray.

Through the use of stalking and pretense both men manage to persuade young women into signing confidentiality agreements that stipulate they want to own the woman, treat her like a slave behind closed doors, and she must isolate herself to keep his deranged fetish a secret.

Is it a coincidence that these different authors follow the exact same path toward the destruction of female freedom and identity—or is there a formula unto which authors of this over the top genre subscribe?

There are other possibilities that possibly explain this phenomenon. It so happens that genre fiction is repetitive. Its endless tirade of new authors shamelessly revisits the same subject matter over and over again to make a buck. However, using the supernatural romance genre as an example, Laurell K. Hamilton’s vampires do not—overtly or covertly—share any of the names or psycho-social archetypes of Anne Rice’s vampires. Neither of these author’s books share anything on the verge of plagiarism with the Twilight series, either; all three merely happen to be about vampires and/or werewolves. It’s all innocent buck-making.

The only stories throughout history to share archetypes—and rarely, names of similar meaning—in such a way have been religious stories passed down through time; myths. This is how we’ve deduced the exact same thing happened to Jesus as did to Osiris as did to Mithras, and so forth: All their births were foretold and visited by wise men, all were born in December, all began their ministries around age thirty, all died and were resurrected within three days. These stories share archetypal symbolism and only differ where their respective cultures are concerned.

The similarities between Comfort Object and Shades of Gray, then, are disturbingly parallel with the similarities between these religious myths: The plots are synonymous, reverent of and cloistered around the same 2D character—the hot wealthy psychopath who singles out women to abuse for pleasure. And in both books the women comply for reasons that cut the species socially and psychologically down to consumerist, self-hating whores: They only want hot guys and lots of cash and to be yanked around on Prada brand leashes; their only power is seduction, and even that is monitored and dispensed as their hot maniac sees fit. Either this is mythos for some underground sexual cult, or one of these authors owes the other an explanation.

Will there be more books that follow the “Gray” doctrine in the future? Were there other “Gray” siblings released in 2010, in 2008, 2007, 2006? Given the parallel storylines, why did James’s book make the New York Times bestseller list while Joseph’s did not; was mainstream unprepared for it in 2009 but ready in 2011? For that matter, what’s up with the twisted Pretty Woman rip-offs being done again and again—kinky publishers or a systematic mockery of strong women?

The fact that both these books were published somewhat closely may have a deeper meaning for new writers who would make a profit. If there’s any formula it’s this: Clichéd scenarios which induce corrosive values in readers across the board—lucrative; original stylized scenarios that induce enlightenment and personal growth—burdens for which the author is scrutinized and must continually reiterate altruistic motives. Bizarro.

Shades of Dislike

My first book review on this blog. I wish it could’ve been a book that I liked better, but Amazon recommended it, I got it, here we are. Like any erotica, once you start reading Fifty Shades of Grey you become a bit hooked, if for nothing else than the short-lived naughty thrill of peeping into someone’s else’s sex life. And that’s really all this book has. If it’s interesting fresh personalities you’re after, or perhaps prose with creative distinctiveness, don’t listen to Amazon and the New York Times.

To be fair, as I said, the lure of naughtiness might keep you reading. Obviously, titillating is an easy sale. But make no mistake, it’s nothing new and the writing leaves a lot to be desired. Certain phrases, word for word, appear in so many different chapters that I often thought I’d accidentally cycled my e-reader back to a previous page (which happens frequently with the iBooks app).

I sound like a complainy-puss, but I don’t like wasting my time with things I had high hopes for. I’m also rather cynical when it comes to erotica; it’s difficult to find unique stuff in a cliché-dependent genre. But it wasn’t the genre that closed the book for me; there are a number of things I take issue with. For one, Author E.L. James’ teensy, seemingly innocuous injections of toxic propaganda. Namely, a conversation where a supporting character, Mia, suggests that the city of Paris is great, except for Parisians (“Boo, French people!”), and an awkward scene where the mother of Christian Grey, Grace, a pediatrician, is called to the phone—a setup clumsily built around her opinion that all children should be vaccinated (“Boo, freedom of choice!”). There are more examples. I’m not writing a thesis on it, though. Suffice it to say it’s almost like Fox News drones on at low volume in the background. And it’s kind of a really big turn-off for an erotic novel. . . unless of course, you’re into that.


The plot follows young, innocent-minded Anastasia Steele, a college student whom falls in love with a psychotic domineering billionaire with cult-like BDSM tendencies—Christian Grey. Her conflict arises from an obsessive sexual attraction for him, despite the fact that he is incapable of love. His idea of a relationship consists of beating, humiliating, and essentially owning Anastasia; he’s done so with every other woman he’s ever known. It begins intriguingly enough. You want to see her rise against this vitiating dude, and for a while she does. Yet plot problems arise as she weakens and succumbs to him, luring herself into a “compromise” with a sexual deviant, which seems inconsistent as far as psychology and human instinct:


There doesn’t seem to be anything in Anastasia’s past to suggest she was destined to be a “submissive” lover—a sex-slave, to be blunt. Moreover, certain details suggest she’d be smarter than that, such as the essentially wholesome, harmless, educated and privileged lifestyle she’s had up until meeting Christian Grey. There are worse things than having a mother who remarries when the seasons change; I thought this facet of Anastasia’s past would’ve made her more adaptive to change and thus more mature, but for all that, she remains “innocent” and “naïve” in the face of insane decisions like whether or not her psychotic lover is an abuser for wholly dominating and humiliating her, desiring to bruise her and punish her like a child. But he’s “hot”, so hot apparently, that she cannot walk away and spends a great deal of time flailing and crying over her indecision.


In the long run, she accepts his bizarre idea of a relationship—going so far as to sign a non-disclosure agreement so that she’ll not try to sue him if he should happen go past her “limits”—and allows herself to believe that his tragic past has screwed him up, but she can change him. Is that not the proverbial mantra of a doomed relationship—“I can fix him/her.” Yes, it’s a black day for true love; womanhood too, for goddess’s sake. Continual references to the protag’s inner goddess is salt in the wound.


There’s no corroborating scene from her past to explain why she retains a grade-school mentality, yet it persists. Numerous references to this twenty-something’s innocence and her childlike mannerisms began to irk me. I stuck around until the middle of Book 2 for some kind of affirmation for why—why is she like this. And when I got sick of waiting, ill from the repetitive not-quite-healthy sex and dialogue, I gave up.


A far better read in this vein is Jacqueline Carey’s Kushiel series, where the writing lives up to the immense challenge of commercializing BDSM. Carey exceeds expectation through genuinely flawed and lovable characters, vivid Renaissance imagery (requiring research), and of course, the sensual backdrop of fallen angels interbred with mortals. Her erotica feels far less gratuitous, repetitive, and clichéd; at the same time, it offers the same naughty little peeks that attract genre fans. Her characters develop with less emphasis on pathos via repetitive mannerisms (i.e., angrily raking fingers through hair and nervously biting the lip—over and over and over); more emphasis instead on an impressive command of emotional vocabulary and metaphor to evoke poetic heroes, villains, sex goddesses, cities and conflicts. While James’ erotica shows familiar sexual tension and adolescent-style confusion, Carey’s shows the potency of sensual language, and she effectively conveys the purpose of her protagonist’s suffering; forget the BDSM, forget it. The woman carves literary sculptures from silk and pain, treachery and true love. If you’ve already read her, you have likely raised your brow at Fifty Shades. If you like this book series, then, much like Twilight fans, you cannot be helped.


Now I know that Fifty Shades is on the New York Times Bestseller list. I don’t claim to understand the NYT, aside from “who does one have to fuck to make the list?” This novel seems inauthentic, hesitant, and pensive in the genre. . . but it has sexy results. Perhaps readers buy controversy; it worked for Dan Brown. Who am I to say. These are opinions. I don’t know how long the author worked, but it is necessary for me to point out that I’ve read better, where it baffled me on just how long the author must have worked, how much blood and sweat went into an obviously spectacular project that deserves whatever accolades. There are authors that I envy, that I long to be compared to. Others, I have to shake my head and wonder if they didn’t know somebody in the business. As a disclaimer, I am cheerfully cynical, as stated above, when it comes to these things. To me, re-doing an idea again and again after it was initially executed well seems like an arrogant waste of time. However, the New York Times and Amazon’s Top 100 are proof of otherwise—that good old fashioned kinky titillation wins out over creativity and substance in a pitifully massive way.

Another excellent read, far and away from this vein, is Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth.

About Face!

I laughed out loud when I ran across this tonight. Not because this young girl was arrested, but because she has my name. Ah, I love the Internet, so plentiful with all its pitfalls, confusions, traps, and mistakes. Obviously, that isn't me. She was apparently booked in Arkansas. I've been on the West Sigh-eed for the last thirty years, yo. If it were me I'd probably be trying to get it taken down, or looking into whether such a thing is even ethical. Sometimes you take things with a grain of salt: lots of people have your name. Sometimes you take things head-on: That is not me. And sometimes you do both.

Speaking of taking things head-on, I thought I'd post a "reprint" of an article I wrote last year. Seeing as how this blog is semi-themed toward reaching other young women like myself -- maybe students, moms, hard workers --I think it's wildly important for all women to take heed. . . perhaps the young woman in the mugshot, too. My husband, who is white, says she's 2000 miles away, looks nothing like me, and he assures me that most white people do not think that all dark-skinned people look the same. We haven't stayed together for ten years by being politically correct. Anyway. The Article.

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Cyber-stalking, Bullies, and Emotional Terrorism
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With a great sigh... it's time for me to spotlight a subject that I dread. It's uncomfortably close to me and very, very ugly in the spotlight. As a victim, though, I feel obligated to speak. I hate being a victim, and pity doesn't pay the bills. But I do believe it's my duty to all vulnerable people at large, mostly young women, to impart what I've experienced in order to prevent it from happening to anyone else.

Stalking, cyber-stalking, hacking. Emotional terrorism. Privacy-invasion. These are crimes by unhinged individuals against unsuspecting prey: Members of on-line communities, of social networks, and of seemingly innocuous forums for advice and common activity.

First I begin with confession; repetition, if you're paying attention. Yes. I have had a stalker, a rather sadistic one. This person has invaded my privacy, and has made the Internet a threatening environment in which I've resorted to using pseudonyms (Makaia, which is an alternate spelling of my middle name, the name I use to post here; and Kaia, which is obviously a shortening of Makaia)to remain anonymous and hidden from their attacks. But no more. I will not hide anymore or remain silent, especially as things have gotten a ridiculous. This person – a middle-aged man -- opened fake social networking accounts in my real name in an attempt to sniff me out as well as get in a little humiliation while he was at it. Maybe you've heard of similar things of late, with the gay girl blog hoax going around the wired.

A common thing for stalkers to think is that they're “saving” their victims. This is ridiculous, of course. What they want is absolute control over their victim. They're the worst abusers walking the planet, with a full-blown God complex for believing that their state of mind is a) healthy and infallible, and b) a hard set of rules that must be followed. If rebelled against, their ideal world begins to splinter and crack, which to them justifies their destructive behavior. They become threatening, abusive, and possibly physically dangerous to others. Oftentimes they appear charismatic with their fixations and idiosyncrasies -- until they're denied what they want.

It's nearly impossible to convince a very sick individual that they need help, just as hard as it is trying to convince friend or family member that they may need therapy after a traumatic event. Adults develop a natural resistance to help, when gone are the days of childlike curiosity and willingness to ask questions and find new ways to approach obstacles. It's a brick wall until they come to their senses, often at the cost of something like their freedom or wellbeing or the easy predictability in their world.

So, onto some methods of stalking -- new methods enabled by new technology. There's a special brand of invasion into a smartphone called cloning. The symptoms are very specific and hard to ignore once you know them. I had them. Make sure you do not.

A little story: Three years ago, I severed ties with a small on-line writing group after finding Trojans and worms in my machine. I learned that the only way to acquire these particular nasties was in downloading infested documents. The only place I downloaded said documents was in 2008, from our small Yahoo! Group with only 6 or 7 members; a place for uploading chapters from our stories and giving each other critiques. The platform was such that you had to download files in order to read each other's stories, Word files and PDFs, and you uploaded your critiques, which were then downloaded by the writer and perhaps by other interested members.

So over about a year, we shared our little novels and exchanged our little critiques. It was meaningless fun and frustration, at times very tense, but a positive learning experience. I didn't think I needed any other forums and was very comfortable with sharing with everyone there. Needless to say, I didn't surf for any other forums or groups. I didn't download files from any other sources, I didn't click on ad-banners, and I didn't visit porn sites, which are usually a good source for computer viruses. Having an IT knowledgeable spouse (and being proudly intermediate myself) means I understood a lot of information that average computer users do not. I knew how to navigate my way safely through the Net.

Turns out I fell victim to attack, not from clicking on and downloading everything in sight, but due to my trusting nature and stubborn belief that all people are basically good. Why would I mistrust a small group of writers who had also quickly become my friends?

One day I noticed my computer acting quite strange. It had the symptoms of a worm. It was nearly interminable, and the process to get rid of it was painstaking and time-consuming. A lot of research showed that, for this particular attack, the nasty executable files had to be embedded in documents. Since I downloaded nothing else, most likely these documents were the chapters from “someone's” book. So you can bet that everyone in that tiny group was infected -- being spied on and having all their sensitive information closely monitored by a seriously ill individual. One friend from the group (the only one I kept after leaving) told me later that her machine suffered a devastating virus and that she too would never return to on-line writing groups. She probably had the same roll call of Trojans and worms that I had. All our files, including videos, novels, e-tax returns and all sensitive documents, really, including family and private photos – everything was invaded and likely captured by this person to do with as he pleased.

I left that group when my husband and I exterminated all the viruses. I swore never to download documents from an “on-line community” again, meaning I wouldn't be joining any writers' groups again. I ran across this article not too long after, the outcry of a woman who had witnessed the ill effects of an under-governed on-line writing community. Her words, although seemingly harried and fearful, never washed off. I had seen similar things. I felt culpable for never speaking out, for not reporting abuse, and not realizing when the same was happening to me. Again: No more.

I – we – are safe now, as the proper authorities are involved and there was never any impending physical harm, but I felt that the situation would remain a point of fear for me if I didn't discuss it. I feel human doing so. If your smart phone/computer is displaying similar symptoms, you will know what to look for. You will know that although things might be edging into the Twilight Zone, and you might not want to confess, that you can, and should.

For those that have had similar experiences, gather your strength and blog about it, publish it, tell the world. Report it. Tell your mom, no matter how old you are; tell your sister, your husband, the police. Tell everyone who you think it is, where you think they are, what you believe they have done. Loved ones listen and take action. Turn the tables and make your stalker feel like the stalked. Do not remain a victim just because the attacks are silent and virtually invisible.

A Little From Column A and a Little From Column B

This post is probably mostly for women and about physical appearance, a topic that I avoid because there are plenty enough birds out there squawking (and definitely tweeting) about it already. Perhaps then it's also about perception, which I strongly believe is more philosophical than it is visual or physical.

What this is not: The proclamation of a feminist; the rantings/ravings of a mad woman; a passive-aggressive attack on any individual on the planet. This might be categorized as cautionary, if anything. So. If during a random sequence of events a stranger said you were ugly, and then soon after another stranger said you were beautiful, who would you listen to? Who should you listen to? Is it a matter of opinion, or is it fact?

A stranger asks with sincere curiosity, "What, are you 22, 23 years old?" Another makes a point of recommending an eye cream to you for your "problem areas." Who do you believe? Either someone is lying, and likely has something to gain from your low self-esteem, or someone is trying to get something out of you and stands to gain from your high self-esteem. Both of these options are likely, and sensible, although the latter is somewhat unlikely because a random compliment from anyone -- a stranger -- shouldn't garner much from you beyond a ladylike oh-why-thank-you smile or, at the absolute max, the shy acquiescent giggle.

Obviously, someone gaining from your low self-esteem is far more damaging. And far more common -- someone is going to be happy that you're miserable because there's a profit of some kind in there somewhere. That's just the way it be. I'd be daft to give out clichéd advice like "just listen to what your loved ones and friends say", because loved ones have your love to maintain; that is, your own mother isn't going to tell you you're ugly, and a true friend probably isn't looking to become your enemy. Neither should we take our loved ones' compliments too seriously, as we know they love us and will say things to that effect. So who do you listen to, who do you ignore.

I will say that I think the media has a corner in the self-esteem market, and generally it's looking to distort your view of yourself so you'll buy its sponsored advertisers' products. There are people out there who literally get rich off of how ugly and fat and imperfect you think you are; they need women miserable because Miserable will purchase anything that might make her Happy.

But what about Content? We are none of us symmetrical. Smile and admit. Art mimics us; it's what we'd like to be and yes, it's beautiful. But it's not real. All of the media's images and ideals, those on magazine racks and in commercials, are airbrushed with cosmetics, Photo-shopped to look skinnier, touched and retouched, or follow someone's script. When you look at that stuff, you absolutely should not believe you are seeing perfection and then start stressing about what you are lacking in comparison. If you do, you have effectively become the victim of low self-esteem, and eventually you'll become a needy, wiry little bramble of misery.

Don't.

You control how you think about yourself, you, and no one else. If you take care of yourself, and take pride in what you can do well, you can be content. You can know that you're already doing everything you should be doing to maintain healthy self-esteem, and you'll find yourself perfectly capable of deciding what's real and what isn't and who to listen to or ignore.