u/tired_of_these_men

The Danger Was Never In My Head
Written by me

They call it hatred. 
Misogyny. 
Feminism.

I call it memory. 
Instinct.
Experience.

How many bodies have to hit the ground before it makes the evening news? 
Before a verdict, not a headline? 
Before her name outlives the bruise?

How many girls do they have to find,
left behind, before "be careful" stops being code for something wrong with how I'm wired?

Ask a man the worst that a date could bring.
He says catfished.
He says she wasn't as cute as her pic.
He says tomato sauce, a stain, a trick.

Ask a woman the same question through. 
She says murdered. 
She says abduction, too.
She says I text a friend the plate
before I get in, just in case.
In case tonight's the night I don't come back.
In case a smile was just an act.

We are not answering the same question.
We are walking down different roads,
in different worlds, meeting at the same intersection.

Ten times he asked me for my number.
Ten times, like my first no was a rough draft.
Like "no" was a suggestion, not a wall.
Like "please leave me alone" meant nothing at all.

I had to threaten badges. Threaten cuffs.
Had to threaten his body — no bluff,
no performance — before he finally understood.
Before he walked.
Before I finally got through.

I'm tired of the stranger smiling in the park.
Tired of doing math before I say hi back.

You want to know why I don't trust so quickly?
Ask the ones who did. Go on. Ask it.
Oh — you can't.

There's a stone with her name.

Flowers from people who thought they'd stay the same. 
Who thought it was somebody else's story until it was hers.
Until it was over.

Don't tell me I'm broken.
Don't prescribe me therapy for staying alive.
Don't tell me normal women wouldn't run, wouldn't choose the bear over someone's son.

If I believed you, I'd be the next one
in an early grave.

The Danger Was Never In My Head
Written by me

They call it hatred. 
Misogyny. 
Feminism.

I call it memory. 
Instinct.
Experience.

How many bodies have to hit the ground before it makes the evening news? 
Before a verdict, not a headline? 
Before her name outlives the bruise?

How many girls do they have to find,
left behind, before "be careful" stops being code for something wrong with how I'm wired?

Ask a man the worst that a date could bring.
He says catfished.
He says she wasn't as cute as her pic.
He says tomato sauce, a stain, a trick.

Ask a woman the same question through. 
She says murdered. 
She says abduction, too.
She says I text a friend the plate
before I get in, just in case.
In case tonight's the night I don't come back.
In case a smile was just an act.

We are not answering the same question.
We are walking down different roads,
in different worlds, meeting at the same intersection.

Ten times he asked me for my number.
Ten times, like my first no was a rough draft.
Like "no" was a suggestion, not a wall.
Like "please leave me alone" meant nothing at all.

I had to threaten badges. Threaten cuffs.
Had to threaten his body — no bluff,
no performance — before he finally understood.
Before he walked.
Before I finally got through.

I'm tired of the stranger smiling in the park.
Tired of doing math before I say hi back.

You want to know why I don't trust so quickly?
Ask the ones who did. Go on. Ask it.
Oh — you can't.

There's a stone with her name.

Flowers from people who thought they'd stay the same. 
Who thought it was somebody else's story until it was hers.
Until it was over.

Don't tell me I'm broken.
Don't prescribe me therapy for staying alive.
Don't tell me normal women wouldn't run, wouldn't choose the bear over someone's son.

If I believed you, I'd be the next one
in an early grave.

The Danger Was Never In My Head
Written by me

They call it hatred. 
Misogyny. 
Feminism.

I call it memory. 
Instinct.
Experience.

How many bodies have to hit the ground before it makes the evening news? 
Before a verdict, not a headline? 
Before her name outlives the bruise?

How many girls do they have to find,
left behind, before "be careful" stops being code for something wrong with how I'm wired?

Ask a man the worst that a date could bring.
He says catfished.
He says she wasn't as cute as her pic.
He says tomato sauce, a stain, a trick.

Ask a woman the same question through. 
She says murdered. 
She says abduction, too.
She says I text a friend the plate
before I get in, just in case.
In case tonight's the night I don't come back.
In case a smile was just an act.

We are not answering the same question.
We are walking down different roads,
in different worlds, meeting at the same intersection.

Ten times he asked me for my number.
Ten times, like my first no was a rough draft.
Like "no" was a suggestion, not a wall.
Like "please leave me alone" meant nothing at all.

I had to threaten badges. Threaten cuffs.
Had to threaten his body — no bluff,
no performance — before he finally understood.
Before he walked.
Before I finally got through.

I'm tired of the stranger smiling in the park.
Tired of doing math before I say hi back.

You want to know why I don't trust so quickly?
Ask the ones who did. Go on. Ask it.
Oh — you can't.

There's a stone with her name.

Flowers from people who thought they'd stay the same. 
Who thought it was somebody else's story until it was hers.
Until it was over.

Don't tell me I'm broken.
Don't prescribe me therapy for staying alive.
Don't tell me normal women wouldn't run, wouldn't choose the bear over someone's son.

If I believed you, I'd be the next one
in an early grave.

The Danger Was Never In My Head
Written by me

They call it hatred. 
Misogyny. 
Feminism.

I call it memory. 
Instinct.
Experience.

How many bodies have to hit the ground before it makes the evening news? 
Before a verdict, not a headline? 
Before her name outlives the bruise?

How many girls do they have to find,
left behind, before "be careful" stops being code for something wrong with how I'm wired?

Ask a man the worst that a date could bring.
He says catfished.
He says she wasn't as cute as her pic.
He says tomato sauce, a stain, a trick.

Ask a woman the same question through. 
She says murdered. 
She says abduction, too.
She says I text a friend the plate
before I get in, just in case.
In case tonight's the night I don't come back.
In case a smile was just an act.

We are not answering the same question.
We are walking down different roads,
in different worlds, meeting at the same intersection.

Ten times he asked me for my number.
Ten times, like my first no was a rough draft.
Like "no" was a suggestion, not a wall.
Like "please leave me alone" meant nothing at all.

I had to threaten badges. Threaten cuffs.
Had to threaten his body — no bluff,
no performance — before he finally understood.
Before he walked.
Before I finally got through.

I'm tired of the stranger smiling in the park.
Tired of doing math before I say hi back.

You want to know why I don't trust so quickly?
Ask the ones who did. Go on. Ask it.
Oh — you can't.

There's a stone with her name.

Flowers from people who thought they'd stay the same. 
Who thought it was somebody else's story until it was hers.
Until it was over.

Don't tell me I'm broken.
Don't prescribe me therapy for staying alive.
Don't tell me normal women wouldn't run, wouldn't choose the bear over someone's son.

If I believed you, I'd be the next one
in an early grave.

The Danger Was Never In My Head
Written by me

They call it hatred. 
Misogyny. 
Feminism.

I call it memory. 
Instinct.
Experience.

How many bodies have to hit the ground before it makes the evening news? 
Before a verdict, not a headline? 
Before her name outlives the bruise?

How many girls do they have to find,
left behind, before "be careful" stops being code for something wrong with how I'm wired?

Ask a man the worst that a date could bring.
He says catfished.
He says she wasn't as cute as her pic.
He says tomato sauce, a stain, a trick.

Ask a woman the same question through. 
She says murdered. 
She says abduction, too.
She says I text a friend the plate
before I get in, just in case.
In case tonight's the night I don't come back.
In case a smile was just an act.

We are not answering the same question.
We are walking down different roads,
in different worlds, meeting at the same intersection.

Ten times he asked me for my number.
Ten times, like my first no was a rough draft.
Like "no" was a suggestion, not a wall.
Like "please leave me alone" meant nothing at all.

I had to threaten badges. Threaten cuffs.
Had to threaten his body — no bluff,
no performance — before he finally understood.
Before he walked.
Before I finally got through.

I'm tired of the stranger smiling in the park.
Tired of doing math before I say hi back.

You want to know why I don't trust so quickly?
Ask the ones who did. Go on. Ask it.
Oh — you can't.

There's a stone with her name.

Flowers from people who thought they'd stay the same. 
Who thought it was somebody else's story until it was hers.
Until it was over.

Don't tell me I'm broken.
Don't prescribe me therapy for staying alive.
Don't tell me normal women wouldn't run, wouldn't choose the bear over someone's son.

If I believed you, I'd be the next one
in an early grave.

I (26F) wrote a poem in the style of spoken word about my experience as a woman. When I wrote it, I was angry and frustrated.

The vision was to get up on stage and speak my truth into the microphone. But now I’m second guessing myself. Is it any good? Would people even care? Would I get booed off stage by the men who feel attacked by my words?

I figured you guys might be interested. Reddit is full of random thoughts.

Below is the poem I wrote. 🫣 let me know what you think.

Title: I will always choose the bear
By (Me)

Every woman knows there are worse things than dying.
We would all choose the bear.
Because at least the bear
doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I was ten years old when the nightmares started.
Raggedy men chased me through a suburb
that was supposed to be safe.
Beer and cigarettes and dirty boots —
and of course, because it was a dream,
no one was ever home.
The doors were locked and they chased me.
They caught me.
They tried to defile me.
I dreamt of the heaviness of his torso.
I dreamt of trying to hold my knees together
like that was something a little girl could possibly do.

By twelve the shame had followed me out of my dreams and into the real world.
I tied a sweatshirt around my waist —
at school, at the mall, at the playground,
even over my shorts in the summer.
I told myself it was fashion.
I told myself it was cool.
But my stomach knotted.
My shoulders braced.
A body learning to expect something
it couldn’t yet name.

For many of us the violence was real.
Not from strangers — from the people our protectors trusted.
The ones already at the dinner table.
Already in the family photos.
Who knew our routines because they were part of them.
Father and brother.
Uncle and cousin.
Mother’s boyfriend, grandpa.
Stepfather.
And sometimes our babysitter.
And sometimes our teacher.
And sometimes our mother.

I know this list.
I’ve lived this list.
At ten, the nightmares.
At twelve, the sweatshirt.
At fifteen — my classmates were whispering about sex like it was something to discover.
I had been dreaming about it almost every night for 5 long years.
Not like that.
Never like that.
By then the nightmares felt normal.
Still awful.
Still horrific.
But normal.
I had adjusted.
I did not imagine my adult life.
I only imagined this — the inevitable.
My body was the product.
My virginity could be sold to the highest bidder.
I knew this the way I knew everything —
without knowing how I knew.
Without being able to name the source.
If men look at me like meat, then I am something to be bought.
And cruelly enjoyed.
So I did the math.
If I am a product, then I can be damaged.
If I am damaged, I cannot be sold.
If I cannot be sold, it makes no business sense to keep me alive.
I wanted to look normal with clothes on.
I only wanted to be disfigured where it mattered.
When undressed to be raped.
So I took apart my father’s razor.
And I made myself defective.

At sixteen I had a penpal.
He was older.
A philanthropist.
A nonprofit organizer.
Someone doing good in the world.
He didn’t choose me.
He targeted me.
And my depression had already done most of his work for him.
I thought this was affection.
I thought his texts were flirty, not manipulation.
I thought his request for photos showed genuine interest, not perversion.
I had been scared of predators my entire life
and I didn’t even know I had been caught in one’s trap.

And then I was seventeen.
He was in his late thirties.
I thought I consented.
I thought I was ready.
I thought this time would be different from the nightmares.
And then, in the middle of the act,
I disappeared.
My mind went somewhere without me.
And when it came back — violently, suddenly — I was still in it.
My body remembered before my mind did.
Ten years of nightmares landing in a single moment.
The tears and sobs came without permission.
My chest heaved and my hands shook
and I couldn’t tell the difference between the dream and the room I was in.
He didn’t stop because I asked.
He stopped because my snot dripped onto his stomach.
I disgusted him so much I was discarded.
He pushed me off to wash himself.
I curled into a ball on the floor and tried to remember how to breathe.
I didn’t know it was rape.
Not yet.
Not for years.

And still.
Chad and Drew and Jacob and Michael and David tell me I’m overreacting.
They share the memes.
They laugh at the bear.
They do nothing while their friends slip something into a drink.
They do nothing while grown men slide into the DMs of literal children.
And they listen to the podcasts that tell them we are commodities.
Resources.
Something to be enjoyed and discarded.
I have seen the videos.
Women’s bodies.
Raped post mortem.
Your body is a weapon.
It has always been a weapon.
I have known this since I was ten years old.
I will always choose the bear.
Because at least the bear doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I (26F) wrote a poem in the style of spoken word about my experience as a woman. When I wrote it, I was angry and frustrated.

The vision was to get up on stage and speak my truth into the microphone. But now I’m second guessing myself. Is it any good? Would people even care? Would I get booed off stage by the men who feel attacked by my words?

I figured you guys might be interested. Reddit is full of random thoughts.

Below is the poem I wrote. 🫣 let me know what you think.

Title: I will always choose the bear
By (Me)

Every woman knows there are worse things than dying.
We would all choose the bear.
Because at least the bear
doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I was ten years old when the nightmares started.
Raggedy men chased me through a suburb
that was supposed to be safe.
Beer and cigarettes and dirty boots —
and of course, because it was a dream,
no one was ever home.
The doors were locked and they chased me.
They caught me.
They tried to defile me.
I dreamt of the heaviness of his torso.
I dreamt of trying to hold my knees together
like that was something a little girl could possibly do.

By twelve the shame had followed me out of my dreams and into the real world.
I tied a sweatshirt around my waist —
at school, at the mall, at the playground,
even over my shorts in the summer.
I told myself it was fashion.
I told myself it was cool.
But my stomach knotted.
My shoulders braced.
A body learning to expect something
it couldn’t yet name.

For many of us the violence was real.
Not from strangers — from the people our protectors trusted.
The ones already at the dinner table.
Already in the family photos.
Who knew our routines because they were part of them.
Father and brother.
Uncle and cousin.
Mother’s boyfriend, grandpa.
Stepfather.
And sometimes our babysitter.
And sometimes our teacher.
And sometimes our mother.

I know this list.
I’ve lived this list.
At ten, the nightmares.
At twelve, the sweatshirt.
At fifteen — my classmates were whispering about sex like it was something to discover.
I had been dreaming about it almost every night for 5 long years.
Not like that.
Never like that.
By then the nightmares felt normal.
Still awful.
Still horrific.
But normal.
I had adjusted.
I did not imagine my adult life.
I only imagined this — the inevitable.
My body was the product.
My virginity could be sold to the highest bidder.
I knew this the way I knew everything —
without knowing how I knew.
Without being able to name the source.
If men look at me like meat, then I am something to be bought.
And cruelly enjoyed.
So I did the math.
If I am a product, then I can be damaged.
If I am damaged, I cannot be sold.
If I cannot be sold, it makes no business sense to keep me alive.
I wanted to look normal with clothes on.
I only wanted to be disfigured where it mattered.
When undressed to be raped.
So I took apart my father’s razor.
And I made myself defective.

At sixteen I had a penpal.
He was older.
A philanthropist.
A nonprofit organizer.
Someone doing good in the world.
He didn’t choose me.
He targeted me.
And my depression had already done most of his work for him.
I thought this was affection.
I thought his texts were flirty, not manipulation.
I thought his request for photos showed genuine interest, not perversion.
I had been scared of predators my entire life
and I didn’t even know I had been caught in one’s trap.

And then I was seventeen.
He was in his late thirties.
I thought I consented.
I thought I was ready.
I thought this time would be different from the nightmares.
And then, in the middle of the act,
I disappeared.
My mind went somewhere without me.
And when it came back — violently, suddenly — I was still in it.
My body remembered before my mind did.
Ten years of nightmares landing in a single moment.
The tears and sobs came without permission.
My chest heaved and my hands shook
and I couldn’t tell the difference between the dream and the room I was in.
He didn’t stop because I asked.
He stopped because my snot dripped onto his stomach.
I disgusted him so much I was discarded.
He pushed me off to wash himself.
I curled into a ball on the floor and tried to remember how to breathe.
I didn’t know it was rape.
Not yet.
Not for years.

And still.
Chad and Drew and Jacob and Michael and David tell me I’m overreacting.
They share the memes.
They laugh at the bear.
They do nothing while their friends slip something into a drink.
They do nothing while grown men slide into the DMs of literal children.
And they listen to the podcasts that tell them we are commodities.
Resources.
Something to be enjoyed and discarded.
I have seen the videos.
Women’s bodies.
Raped post mortem.
Your body is a weapon.
It has always been a weapon.
I have known this since I was ten years old.
I will always choose the bear.
Because at least the bear doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I (26F) wrote a poem in the style of spoken word about my experience as a woman. When I wrote it, I was angry and frustrated.

The vision was to get up on stage and speak my truth into the microphone. But now I’m second guessing myself. Is it any good? Would people even care? Would I get booed off stage by the men who feel attacked by my words?

I figured you guys might be interested. Reddit is full of random thoughts.

Below is the poem I wrote. 🫣 let me know what you think.

Title: I will always choose the bear
By (Me)

Every woman knows there are worse things than dying.
We would all choose the bear.
Because at least the bear
doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I was ten years old when the nightmares started.
Raggedy men chased me through a suburb
that was supposed to be safe.
Beer and cigarettes and dirty boots —
and of course, because it was a dream,
no one was ever home.
The doors were locked and they chased me.
They caught me.
They tried to defile me.
I dreamt of the heaviness of his torso.
I dreamt of trying to hold my knees together
like that was something a little girl could possibly do.

By twelve the shame had followed me out of my dreams and into the real world.
I tied a sweatshirt around my waist —
at school, at the mall, at the playground,
even over my shorts in the summer.
I told myself it was fashion.
I told myself it was cool.
But my stomach knotted.
My shoulders braced.
A body learning to expect something
it couldn’t yet name.

For many of us the violence was real.
Not from strangers — from the people our protectors trusted.
The ones already at the dinner table.
Already in the family photos.
Who knew our routines because they were part of them.
Father and brother.
Uncle and cousin.
Mother’s boyfriend, grandpa.
Stepfather.
And sometimes our babysitter.
And sometimes our teacher.
And sometimes our mother.

I know this list.
I’ve lived this list.
At ten, the nightmares.
At twelve, the sweatshirt.
At fifteen — my classmates were whispering about sex like it was something to discover.
I had been dreaming about it almost every night for 5 long years.
Not like that.
Never like that.
By then the nightmares felt normal.
Still awful.
Still horrific.
But normal.
I had adjusted.
I did not imagine my adult life.
I only imagined this — the inevitable.
My body was the product.
My virginity could be sold to the highest bidder.
I knew this the way I knew everything —
without knowing how I knew.
Without being able to name the source.
If men look at me like meat, then I am something to be bought.
And cruelly enjoyed.
So I did the math.
If I am a product, then I can be damaged.
If I am damaged, I cannot be sold.
If I cannot be sold, it makes no business sense to keep me alive.
I wanted to look normal with clothes on.
I only wanted to be disfigured where it mattered.
When undressed to be raped.
So I took apart my father’s razor.
And I made myself defective.

At sixteen I had a penpal.
He was older.
A philanthropist.
A nonprofit organizer.
Someone doing good in the world.
He didn’t choose me.
He targeted me.
And my depression had already done most of his work for him.
I thought this was affection.
I thought his texts were flirty, not manipulation.
I thought his request for photos showed genuine interest, not perversion.
I had been scared of predators my entire life
and I didn’t even know I had been caught in one’s trap.

And then I was seventeen.
He was in his late thirties.
I thought I consented.
I thought I was ready.
I thought this time would be different from the nightmares.
And then, in the middle of the act,
I disappeared.
My mind went somewhere without me.
And when it came back — violently, suddenly — I was still in it.
My body remembered before my mind did.
Ten years of nightmares landing in a single moment.
The tears and sobs came without permission.
My chest heaved and my hands shook
and I couldn’t tell the difference between the dream and the room I was in.
He didn’t stop because I asked.
He stopped because my snot dripped onto his stomach.
I disgusted him so much I was discarded.
He pushed me off to wash himself.
I curled into a ball on the floor and tried to remember how to breathe.
I didn’t know it was rape.
Not yet.
Not for years.

And still.
Chad and Drew and Jacob and Michael and David tell me I’m overreacting.
They share the memes.
They laugh at the bear.
They do nothing while their friends slip something into a drink.
They do nothing while grown men slide into the DMs of literal children.
And they listen to the podcasts that tell them we are commodities.
Resources.
Something to be enjoyed and discarded.
I have seen the videos.
Women’s bodies.
Raped post mortem.
Your body is a weapon.
It has always been a weapon.
I have known this since I was ten years old.
I will always choose the bear.
Because at least the bear doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I (26F) wrote a poem in the style of spoken word about my experience as a woman. When I wrote it, I was angry and frustrated.

The vision was to get up on stage and speak my truth into the microphone. But now I’m second guessing myself. Is it any good? Would people even care? Would I get booed off stage by the men who feel attacked by my words?

I figured you guys might be interested. Reddit is full of random thoughts.

Below is the poem I wrote. 🫣 let me know what you think.

Title: I will always choose the bear
By (Me)

Every woman knows there are worse things than dying.
We would all choose the bear.
Because at least the bear
doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I was ten years old when the nightmares started.
Raggedy men chased me through a suburb
that was supposed to be safe.
Beer and cigarettes and dirty boots —
and of course, because it was a dream,
no one was ever home.
The doors were locked and they chased me.
They caught me.
They tried to defile me.
I dreamt of the heaviness of his torso.
I dreamt of trying to hold my knees together
like that was something a little girl could possibly do.

By twelve the shame had followed me out of my dreams and into the real world.
I tied a sweatshirt around my waist —
at school, at the mall, at the playground,
even over my shorts in the summer.
I told myself it was fashion.
I told myself it was cool.
But my stomach knotted.
My shoulders braced.
A body learning to expect something
it couldn’t yet name.

For many of us the violence was real.
Not from strangers — from the people our protectors trusted.
The ones already at the dinner table.
Already in the family photos.
Who knew our routines because they were part of them.
Father and brother.
Uncle and cousin.
Mother’s boyfriend, grandpa.
Stepfather.
And sometimes our babysitter.
And sometimes our teacher.
And sometimes our mother.

I know this list.
I’ve lived this list.
At ten, the nightmares.
At twelve, the sweatshirt.
At fifteen — my classmates were whispering about sex like it was something to discover.
I had been dreaming about it almost every night for 5 long years.
Not like that.
Never like that.
By then the nightmares felt normal.
Still awful.
Still horrific.
But normal.
I had adjusted.
I did not imagine my adult life.
I only imagined this — the inevitable.
My body was the product.
My virginity could be sold to the highest bidder.
I knew this the way I knew everything —
without knowing how I knew.
Without being able to name the source.
If men look at me like meat, then I am something to be bought.
And cruelly enjoyed.
So I did the math.
If I am a product, then I can be damaged.
If I am damaged, I cannot be sold.
If I cannot be sold, it makes no business sense to keep me alive.
I wanted to look normal with clothes on.
I only wanted to be disfigured where it mattered.
When undressed to be raped.
So I took apart my father’s razor.
And I made myself defective.

At sixteen I had a penpal.
He was older.
A philanthropist.
A nonprofit organizer.
Someone doing good in the world.
He didn’t choose me.
He targeted me.
And my depression had already done most of his work for him.
I thought this was affection.
I thought his texts were flirty, not manipulation.
I thought his request for photos showed genuine interest, not perversion.
I had been scared of predators my entire life
and I didn’t even know I had been caught in one’s trap.

And then I was seventeen.
He was in his late thirties.
I thought I consented.
I thought I was ready.
I thought this time would be different from the nightmares.
And then, in the middle of the act,
I disappeared.
My mind went somewhere without me.
And when it came back — violently, suddenly — I was still in it.
My body remembered before my mind did.
Ten years of nightmares landing in a single moment.
The tears and sobs came without permission.
My chest heaved and my hands shook
and I couldn’t tell the difference between the dream and the room I was in.
He didn’t stop because I asked.
He stopped because my snot dripped onto his stomach.
I disgusted him so much I was discarded.
He pushed me off to wash himself.
I curled into a ball on the floor and tried to remember how to breathe.
I didn’t know it was rape.
Not yet.
Not for years.

And still.
Chad and Drew and Jacob and Michael and David tell me I’m overreacting.
They share the memes.
They laugh at the bear.
They do nothing while their friends slip something into a drink.
They do nothing while grown men slide into the DMs of literal children.
And they listen to the podcasts that tell them we are commodities.
Resources.
Something to be enjoyed and discarded.
I have seen the videos.
Women’s bodies.
Raped post mortem.
Your body is a weapon.
It has always been a weapon.
I have known this since I was ten years old.
I will always choose the bear.
Because at least the bear doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I’m so mad. Story time.

Medina line road is a 2 lane road, one lane south and one lane north.

Im headed north and I see something in the middle of the south bound lane. At first I thought it was a shoe or trash. But as the car headed south passes over it, I realize it is a turtle.

I quickly pull over, turn on my hazards, and run back to help it cross. I know turtles are roadkill because people intentionally try to hit them.

Lo and behold, a truck is coming towards me in the north bound lane as I’m jogging in the shoulder to get to the turtle. This MF-ING TRUCK crosses over the double yellow line into the south bound lane to kill the turtle as I’m about to reach it!!! More than half the width of the truck was in the wrong side of the road.

WHAT THE F*CK DUDE!!!

He fails (thank god) and the turtle is ok. Turns out it is a map turtle, a protected species!

The truck stops near my parked car (and watches I guess) as I pick up the turtle, make sure it is ok and alive. I placed it past the ditch on the far side of the road where it was headed. I figured the trees would do it some good? Idk.

The truck drives off and I don’t get the chance to give the driver a piece of my mind. Probably for the best because I don’t want a battery charge.

Why? Why why why would someone intentionally hit an animal? I understand that sometimes raccoons and squirrels jump into the road right in front of you and there isn’t enough time to stop or swerve. Deer, cats, opossums often are killed by cars for that reason. It’s accidental. But to have almost the entire width of your vehicle in the wrong lane of traffic to kill a turtle???

I’m raging. I hope the turtle lives a long life. And I hope the driver never looses a family member to vehicular manslaughter.

I’m so mad. Story time.

Medina line road is a 2 lane road, one lane south and one lane north.

Im headed north and I see something in the middle of the south bound lane. At first I thought it was a shoe or trash. But as the car headed south passes over it, I realize it is a turtle.

I quickly pull over, turn on my hazards, and run back to help it cross. I know turtles are roadkill because people intentionally try to hit them.

Lo and behold, a truck is coming towards me in the north bound lane as I’m jogging in the shoulder to get to the turtle. This MF-ING TRUCK crosses over the double yellow line into the south bound lane to kill the turtle as I’m about to reach it!!! More than half the width of the truck was in the wrong side of the road.

WHAT THE F*CK DUDE!!!

He fails (thank god) and the turtle is ok. Turns out it is a map turtle, a protected species!

The truck stops near my parked car (and watches I guess) as I pick up the turtle, make sure it is ok and alive. I placed it past the ditch on the far side of the road where it was headed. I figured the trees would do it some good? Idk.

The truck drives off and I don’t get the chance to give the driver a piece of my mind. Probably for the best because I don’t want a battery charge.

Why? Why why why would someone intentionally hit an animal? I understand that sometimes raccoons and squirrels jump into the road right in front of you and there isn’t enough time to stop or swerve. Deer, cats, opossums often are killed by cars for that reason. It’s accidental. But to have almost the entire width of your vehicle in the wrong lane of traffic to kill a turtle???

I’m raging. I hope the turtle lives a long life. And I hope the driver never looses a family member to vehicular manslaughter.

I’m not really looking for answers or asking “AITA”. This is more of a venting session because I’m so fed up.

Story time.

Last autumn I matched with a guy on bumble. Let’s call him “Ghost” because that’s what happened. 32 male. I’m 25 at the time, didn’t think the age gap was an issue due to my life trajectory and his. 

Over the course of 5 weeks, Ghost and I went on a few dates. It was great, until mid October, when the excuses started. Family stuff, feeling under the weather, work, too tired, etc. Individually, they all seemed reasonable excuses to cancel plans or not being able to schedule plans. I responded with “no big deal” and “don’t worry about it” while also trying to reschedule or make different plans with Ghost. I was trying to be accommodating and reasonable because I understand life gets busy sometimes. 

But then it was mid December. Two full months went by without a date. So I called him out on his silence and BS. He just never responded. Hence the nickname “Ghost”.

End of story right? Nope.

I want to say it was mid March? A guy I don’t know sends me a friend request on Facebook with the same last name as Ghost. Turns out, it’s his older brother. Let’s call him “Eww” 🤪. Ew is somewhere between 35 and 38. So about a 10 year difference. 

Of course I’m suspicious. This is weird AF. Eww messages me explaining who he is, that his brother is an idiot, and that he would love to get to know me/take me out on a date. Suspicious, but whatever. I ask him why, if he usually goes after his brother’s leftovers… stuff like that. Trying to figure out Eww’s motives for pursuing me. The responses to my questions didn’t reveal anything that would make me end the conversation, so I figured why not see where this goes. Engaging with caution.

We end up going on a date late April. I’m 26 by this time. I thought the date went well! Eww was very interesting. He is a business owner and has hobbies like taking cooking classes, baking, painting, etc. Like calm masculine energy. Seemed like he had good IQ and EQ. 

He doesn’t text me much after the date. I ask him why, if I did/said something wrong. His response was “it seems like we are looking for different things”. I’m baffled. Eww asked ME out on a date. We were flirting over text for over a month. He seemed like he wanted a relationship. I tried to ask for clarification. Nothing. So I deleted Eww’s phone number and unfriended him on Facebook. 

YESTERDAY.

Eww messages me asking if I want to come over. Mind you, this is 2 months of zero contact. Sirens are activated in my head. He said “you know why. To make you scream” 🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️ gross. No thank you. 

Ugh

So you don’t want to be in a relationship despite you reaching out indicating that you want to pursue one. You don’t want to maintain contact. I’m not good enough for you, but you still want me in your bed??? 

I don’t understand where these men get the audacity. Clearly it’s been on sale somewhere because wtf??? Why? Why would you think I would ever say yes? I gave zero indications I was “down for hookups” 🤮 

I’d rather be single forever with battery powered silicon than let myself get taken advantage of by these idiots.