I have had a hell of a couple of weeks, and I’m glad things are going much better. My dad should still be in the hospital this coming week, but he’ll be home in the next 10 days or so.

I’m giving myself a slack weekend, and then I’ll be getting cracking, back to work on things. I have trouble managing my time, so I need to find a way to get everything I need to do done in the best possible time-frame, because I need more do-nothing or wut-I-want weekend days in my life.

I need to make time available so I can find a way to get a guy involved in my life. I’ve been one of those people claiming I don’t have time for love for too long now, and it’s time I figure out a way to make that change. I don’t want to be single. I want to be a party of two for a little while and I think I’m finally ready to go that route.

I saw a show recently where a person said the best thing they ever learned was To not waste time. And it’s time I learn the truth of that for myself, I figure.

I was thinking about the podcast I need to finally get to when things settle down. I want to do a show about being single when you don’t want to be and the frustrations it brings. There are a lot of times I’m really cool with being single, and I think it comes from sort of knowing that I need the time to sort myself out or make changes in my life, and I’m all right with that. I can almost resign myself to enjoying it, really.

But there are times when we realize that it’s about as together as it’s going to get, you know? Moments when you realize that, hey, there’s always going to be a wrinkle in the fabric. That’s just the way it goes. And I’m a pragmatist, too. I don’t think there’s “one right guy” for me. I’m open-minded about people and try to see the best in folks, if they’ll let me. And because there’s no one right guy I also don’t suspect there’s one right relationship for forever and ever. I would hope I could find that, a person worth making that kind of commitment to, but I know the odds are sort of stacked against that.

Relationships are subject to variables and outside factors, just like gamblers’ odds. You have to acknowledge variables — money, status, geography, careers, medical issues, time constraints, responsibilities, and plain old luck — and you have to realize that any combination of variables could serve to bust even the most hardiest of bets. People want to think that a great combination of interests and compatibilities and even trust and communication are enough to sustain a relationship through hard times. But, no. Not often.

So, I expect most relationships to fail. A bit cynical, perhaps, but it’s just realism in my books. I accept things are liable to fail at the outset. I don’t try to stack the deck, though. I just watch with a bit of a removed stance. Look for variations and tells.

Relationships are a risk. And yeah, they often end not so well. But the point is to enjoy the ride while it lasts. Play the game for the game, not the outcome.

So, I’m feeling like I want to be stuck in a moment. And I know I got game. I expect I’m liable to get hurt or disappointed at some point down the line, yet it still seems like some fun could be had before that fact. I’m at the point now where I’m getting sick of being single, ‘cos I actually have got the nerve up to go out there and be vulnerable again. Whump! Hear that? It’s the sound of my guard dropping. So, we’ll see what happens. The Craigslist thing was a waste of time — too much has happened. I might have something in the works. We’ll see. You will be apprised of developments, to be sure.

Oh, wow. Just wow. Just when you thought primetime gameshows couldn’t stoop any lower. Have you seen Show Me The Money? I bet you haven’t. And you know what? That’s really okay. It will be minutes and minutes of your life that you will never get to live again, and that’s a price far too high to pay. After all, you could just go to Hooters, and then you’d at least get some wings and a beer with your t’n’a.

I’m sure there are young lesbians and boys everywhere just salivating over this show. I’m waiting for the Clearasil ads to appear in the commercial slots. That and Trojan condoms. For her pleasure.

This thing, man, it’s Reno, not Las Vegas, goes gameshow. It debuts Nov. 22, on ABC. They had a special preview tonight. Aw, gee. Special! Thanks, ABC!

Your host? William Shatner. Who, I might add, is all gussied-up like a ‘70s porn producer who has a side gig as Tony Bennet’s promoter. Black tuxedo shirt, red vest, black tuxedo suit. Shit-eating grin. Alcoholic’s doughiness.

His sidekick? Why, there’s a good dozen or so of ‘em! The Dancers! Yes, if that ‘80s institution, Solid Gold, mated with The Price Is Right, it would be this. Throw in a healthy dose of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and Deal or No Deal? and you got yourself Show Me The Money. They’re all bombshells, too, and you just KNOW their cellphones have at least one plastic surgeon’s number in ’em.

This, quite possibly, could honestly be as low as it goes. I mean, you couldn’t have more blatant sexualizing of women that you’ve got in this fucking show. You got yer 13 dancers, and they’re all ho’d up with their red micro-tube dress with hollowed-out backs. They come in dancing like they’re fresh from their Girls! Girls! Girls! tour where they took on names like Fluffy Cums-a-Lot and Mi-Yung Cunt.

And they all take their places on the stage, which, I shit you not, has six or so “terraces” and each, heh heh, comes with its very own pole. Uh-huh. And all these girls do is stand there beside a scroll that’s sitting on a stool, and they wait until, yes, the “contestant” chooses them and has them serve their use. And then, well, they’re no longer of any use and they stand there looking pretty, until Shatner instructs them to dance.

Even the stage/studio is decorated like it’s a stripper club out of Beverly Hills Cop.

Good god. And you should see fucking Shatner! At the end of the show, his eyes practically POP with glee when he says, “Ladies, let’s have the dance for this-hot-young-sailor-from-the-Navy-but-I-can’t-remember-his-name.” And Shatner gets down and boogies with the girls on the stage, surrounding the sailor, who’s a fucking numbskull and lost $420,000 on a dumb-ass question. I veto his right to oxygen, all right? Paula Abul? Paula Poundstone! Fucking ditz.

The only thing I can possibly say about the show is that it’s about goddamned time that someone thanked Cameron Crowe for his “gimme” of a gameshow title, a la Cuba Gooding Jr. and his Scientologist freak of a friend, Tom Cruise. Hell. It took, what, eight years? It was only the most repeated phrase that year. Who doesn’t compute it to be a good name for a gameshow? Not a piece of shit like this, but hey, good name.

The premise of the game is too fucking complicated to explain in a nutshell, ergo the show probably has an unfortunate half-life of about 2/3s of a season. If that. But the premise itself? Not too bad. No brains involved, really, and far too many safeties built in, even though you know they’re prescreening the contestants, and it’s obvious they’re stacking the deck.

Don’t even get me fucking started about the dancers. Throw any old goddamned mix of feminist complaints in there and I’ll go “Yeah! That!” Treating women as sexual objects? They DANCE on FUCKING COMMAND! They’re USED ONCE and DISCARDED. They serve no purpose but that of looking pretty… suggestive. What they do, a chimpanzee – or a signboard – could do.

Yeah, you’re bloody right I find it offensive! I find it STUNNING to be happening so blatantly, and with few apologies, in a mainstream primetime slot! Fuck, man. It’s 2006. Can we please get the hell past Barbie?

I don’t know, man. How do you close with a “bang” on something so goddamned potent as this? A creepy old dirty widower who won an Emmy playing a redneck misogynist (if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, chances are…) and a dozen chicks who are trying to fuck their way into a better place in Hollywood, each of whom has their very own pole on primetime television (but – wink, wink – they don’t use it). I honestly am at a loss here. I’m really beginning to wonder if the whole women’s movement-success/advancement-of-women’s-issues thing was just a really dull, happy dream I had had that I’m finally waking up from. I mean, I just got to wonder.

Don’t you?

Wow. Ever notice after a great period of stress, that when you’re finally able to relax, you’re just wiped right out? I am! I’m e-x-h-a-u-s-t-e-d. Whew!

But that’s because I know I don’t need to worry about Pops anymore. Saw him yesterday and the dude looks 15 years younger! His hair’s gone all grey now, which looks distinguished on him, and his complexion’s clearer than it’s been in about five years. Dad’ll still be in the hospital another week or two, but the scary stuff has passed now, and it’s just getting that last little bit of healing in that counts. But having spoken to Dad finally, with him now being clearheaded and with his faculties intact, it’s official: He’s got a fight in him. Whew. And his diet that he needs to go on to get his diabetes under control has gotten a great kickstart — he’s lost about 50lbs in 10 or 12 days. Yeesh. I gotta get me an IV bag and some 24-hour bed care, huh? Where’s a cute male nurse when a girl needs one?

Speaking of cute, he had the most adorable doctor. I think the guy was a gross between Dr. McDreamy and John Lennon. He had a wrinkly suit on and hipster kicks. More importantly? Dad loves him to death. My dad’s always gone with the underdog, even when it comes with his healthcare. I’m calling his doctor Dr. Pampers, because I doubt he’s even 30.

Sadly, I’ve been kicked out before the doctor’s come in the last couple times. No flirting. Sigh.

Sorry, kids, but I haven’t wanted to do any writing — I’m flat-out tired. I’m SPENT. Utterly. I did some photography on the weekend, but now I need to catch up on sleep and rest. Stay tuned, I’ll definitely be feeling like writing once this exhaustion hangover goes away. Yawn. Grumble. And, to think: I need to work. Ugh!

Hey, peoples.

Checking in again. There’ve finally been some positive developments on the Dad Front. Reports indicate the battle of the bad bacteria is being won by a triple-hit of broad-spectrum antibiotics. Infections appear to be retreating, but it’s too soon to tell if the revolt is going to settle entirely, or if the battle will be stretched out for a spell.

Still, positive developments and we’re keeping an eye on things.

So, Dad’s starting to improve, in other words. I’m a pretty pleased kid today, and this is my reconnecting with self day.

I’m about to head out into the rainy dreary Wet Coast Sunday and make a dash to the cemetery, where I’m going to get some moody weather shots with tombstones and stuff. I’ve always loved moody, atmospheric black & whites that use weather and the winter season to set the mood. This has been on my creative to-do list for a few years now. Cross that one off, Bertha. It’s done like dinner. Then, speaking of food, off to the public markets for good fresh foods for my isolation dinner. To hell with people — it’s a quiet night in before another day at the hospital tomorrow. And muchos sleep for the third night in a row. Rest is awesome. Maybe I’ll soon lose the dark bags under my eyes. How unsexy.

Thanks for your positive thoughts, people. It looks like Dad’s gonna have another kick at the can. Let’s hope he appreciates it and decides to fight the good fight against diabetes. If not, well, hey. I’ll make do with it as I can.

Soon, we’ll get back to matters of the heart. Reality breaks are needed from time to time. Speaking of cemetaries and matters of the heart, I was doing a little writing during Harold and Maude. I’ll get that up sometime.

Hi there, my good people.

I’m hunkering down for a storm that’s just now beginning to rage, and rage it will. Winds shall break 120 km/hr tonight. I think that’s 85 miles, for you metrically-challenged Americans.

It’s stormy nights like this that I enjoy not being single. Which I’m not. I’m single, not not single. Still. I did have a date recently, which I think we both realized wasn’t working out. Nice enough guy, but certainly no go. Lemme give you a very, very simple tip.

If your date can’t find enough time for you on the first date, and he/she keeps answering their cellphone, it may be an indicator that you’re not going to be priority one any time soon in the future, either. Don’t get involved and then wonder why they never have 100% of their attention thrown your way — it was made clear that was the case from day one.

Know those little things I’m always looking for? Just another example. Me, my cellphone gets turned off.

My date was cellphone-challenged. I’m not too keen on men who don’t focus their attention on me. Some careers require it, but most careers can come with, oh, a four-hour pause button.

Anyhow. As it happens, single I am. Amazing what running a Craigslist ad and then posting something freaky about your dad’s health and the drama you’re facing can do to make men run like they’re in the streets of Pamplona, fleeing a herd of crazed bulls looking to trample them to death.

Not like I care, really. I just haven’t the energy to bother. I’ve had better results other times, and I think I wasn’t in the headspace anyhow. I think I wanted a good shagging, really. The rest is difficult to manouever at times, and my head’s been in the wrong fucking place on a whole lot of levels for a whole lotta time.

I’ll tell you one thing, though: Dealing with disease and the threat of loved ones passing tends to remind you that life’s too fucking short to put the living on hold.

There are many variations of the same saying, and my two favourite come from 1) The Shawshank Redemption, and 2) a quote by the highly controversial Ayn Rand. They are, respectively, “Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin'” and “Man’s greatest fault is is inability to realize that avoiding death does not equal living life.” Oh, and a third, from Virginia Woolf, “Look out! If you are losing your leisure, it may be you are losing your soul.”

I’ve had big wake-ups in my life and many, many of them. My near-death scenarios alone are enough to make me realize how precious this all is, let alone the deaths of those around me. Yet, like everyone else, I forget how important moments are, and how unique every day is. I fall into the drone of the routine. I am just another mindless soul shuffling down the city streets, just like you. And sometimes I manage to wake the hell up and stop avoiding death just long enough to live a little life for a bit.

I have been working like a dog for all the wrong reasons. I’ve not been enjoying my life. I don’t have fun with my friends. I don’t get shagged or date or smile unprovoked these days. Something slipped away from me during all my crazy, crazy months that have started and persisted throughout this dreaded year of 2006. Some good moments in there, to be sure, but it’s mostly been stress and worry, and for what? Has it all been worth it? The short answer: Not on your life. Certainly not on mine.

Now my father lies in ICU, his condition not changing, which is good and bad all at the same time. And I remember: I was always the smell-the-roses type. You know, I have previously planned roadtrips so minutely as to pre-arrange my positioning for sunrises. You know, on top of X mountain for sunrise, that sort of thing. I know how to live life. Goddamned right I do. I know how to indulge and laugh and be spontaneous. Hell, I wrote the fucking book on it. Yet I, too, have fallen victim to coasting through life on cruise control instead of grabbing the fucking wheel and just going, you know?

I suspect my father will get well. There’s no hard proof. Just hope and prayers and superstitious rituals. I know I’ll still be single when the windows start to clatter and the winds really howl as they rip through the gap between these two apartment buildings late tonight. I know that, no matter what happens tomorrow, with me, my father, my life, that I’ll still have a pulse and life will still be there, waiting to be lived by a girl with as keen a passion for life as I know I once had and will have again.

Anyhow. This is a meandering post, but I just wanted to check in, say hey, I’m still around, and yeah, life’s a bitch and a grind, but it is what it is, and even in the shittiest of days there can be pluses to be had. Just takes a little creativity and a whole lot of willingness to look at the finer points in order to find the good stuff. Somehow, I’m managing to do just that.

Meanwhile. I’m overdue for a nice hot bath. Enjoy your warm-bodied bed-buddies if you have ’em. This girl’s a low-maintenance party of one this evening.

As Canadians, most of the people I know were obsessed with the voting returns last night. I applaud the new Democratic House and I’m curious to see what the next couple years will be like. I’m also happy to see a female Speaker of the House. Wow. There’s a neat change in the U.S. Go, Nancy.

As for my father, ICU seems to be the perfect place for him. He’s slowly improving. Had some colour yesterday, and even though he was too weak to communicate much, he had a ferocious grip in his hands and squeezed my brother’s and my hands and looked on us with great affection that still makes me smile now. Who says you need words to know you’re loved? I’ll know more later this week, but I’m optimistic he’ll get past this and I can return to being a happy Steff. Stay tuned.

(FYI: My father’s taken a turn for the worse. Intensive care, life support. The news looks bad. I don’t know if he’ll make it through the next few days. This blog is not a priority, but it can be cathartic. I don’t suspect I’ll be a barrell of laughs for a bit.)

The good people over at Penguin’s imprint Avery have been so kind as to send me Nina Hartley’s Guide to Total Sex.

Hmm. A book on sex that features raves on the cover from Margaret Cho and Penn Jillette? Hmm, indeed. I wouldn’t exactly list Cho & Penn as two of my sex idols. In moments of unbridled passion, where the lights are low, temperatures rising, panties in a twist, when I’m staring down an erect penis, I don’t flash into the recesses of my brain and go, “Oh, god, what would Margaret Cho do right now?” I mean, obviously.

Let this be a lesson to publishers: Just because you can get a celebrity to endorse your product doesn’t necessarily mean you should. Penn? Ahem.

Now, Hartley pronounces that this is the book she wished she had at 18. Okay, all right.

I have a problem getting totally behind this book. And lemme tell ya why.

First, sex is a pretty mind-blowing thing, and unlike riding the old wooden roller coaster or some other cheap thrill like that, it can vary six ways to Sunday every single time you do it. Unlike other thrills, sex has a whole world of options available to you.

Sex is one of the most expansive activities you will ever, ever engage in.

Thus, I find it pretty hard to believe that Nina Hartley’s double-spaced, 349-page Guide to (Not-quite-so) Total Sex is ever gonna be an encyclopedic reference.

Add to that the total lack of images of any kind, and you can start to wonder just how clued-in Hartley was at 18, ‘cos I gotta tell ya, some diagrams woulda gotten me to a whole new place of fulfillment back when I was 18. Describing body parts by name or vague description isn’t going to work for a lot of people. Pictures aren’t too hard to do, and they can serve a whole lot of purposes. Sex books without pictures are somewhat baffling.

The other problem is this happy medley of voices employed by Miss Hartley as she narrates your way through the book – half porn-star, half biology teacher – I just find the weird voice to be a whole lot less effective a way of educating the masses. It’s missing something in its explanations, and it far too much assumes that the average reader already knows something about sex. And, unfortunately, in this case, they probably do. They’ve probably seen any number of Miss Hartley’s videos.

This is not a book for beginners. It doesn’t break shit down near enough. Maybe a sex-video star knows a bit more about human biology than the average person, but this is one incident when addressing the lowest common denominator is something that would benefit the masses.

That said, this is not the book I would have wanted at age 18, and if it was the first sex book I was ever buying, I think there would be an awful lot I’d be missing out on. As a back-up book or for an out-of-practice lover, it might be a good purchase.

All the negatives aside, I often enjoyed the voice it was written in, and I like the emphasis that one can be a moral sexual being, that there is an ethic at work among the more sexually promiscuous – most of the time – but I’m not sure that it doesn’t gloss things over a little at times. Still, it’s a great attempt at reminding people that sex is basic biology and not something we should be experiencing such guilt over engaging in.

That it touches on the basics of bondage, BDSM, swinging, and other less than mainstream deviations is something I do applaud. I just think it’s a little too simplistic.

And it’s not a Total Guide, however much it wishes to be.

The ultimate, absolute best book I’ve ever, ever seen on sex was and IS, with its brand-spankin’-new eighth edition, is The Guide to Getting it On.

In the next couple weeks I’ll be reviewing it, talking about the CRAZY new selection of new chapters they’ve just added in, and telling you why, if you only ever buy one book on sex, whether you’re male or female, Paul Johannides’ Guide to Getting it On is absolutely, hands-down, the one book to buy.

If you’re looking for an interesting look at other aspects of sex, and you’re wanting a good read, well-organized, basic look at a wide variety of sexual lifestyles and such, this is actually a really good book to have. It’s just not what Miss Hartley’s trying to sell you. Total guide? Not by a long shot, but certainly a good backdrop for a larger library.

My religion is well known
to those who know me.
I believe in bodies,
arms entangling and untangling.
I believe, and I know it to be so,
that there are so many
curves and hollows
in a single body
that none of us
can come to know them all
within a single lifetime.
I believe in one to one
and one on one.
No wine or magic,
no hand-me-down Bible
can improve on that.
I believe in spring,
but only if I’m rolled up in a pillow
or holding some well-loved face
in my hands…
More often I’m a spectator,
meaning I’ve no reason
to believe in anything
save what I see.
But I do.

–Rod McKuen, Alone

According to a recent study by the UN’s World Health Organization, the greatest threat to a woman’s safety and life is her partner.

The irony is, most of us claim to feel safer when we’re involved. Nothing quite makes the cold, bitter world outside fade away than the comforting arms of a man. But the facts are facts, and depending where you are in the world, there’s anywhere from a 1 in 7 to 7 in 10 chance (15 – 70%) that you’re going to be victimized by your lover at some point in your life, and if it happens once, you can almost lay Vegas odds on it happening again.

Violence is never, ever okay. Apologies are just words. Actions speak far louder. Violence is never the way to solve problems. There is never an excuse that can justify someone raising a hand (or belt or frying pan or stick or tire iron) against you. And contrary to popular opinion, men are battered, too. And that’s just as wrong.

I don’t care who you are or what your excuse is, if you’ve ever smacked someone or done any kind of physical violence because you were “angry”, then you have issues and you need to deal with it if you haven’t already. And if you’re in a relationship with someone who’s been violent against you, you need to walk.

Some relationships, it’s hard to walk. Hell, it might be the hardest thing you ever do. There are those who will threaten the lives of their “lovers”, in the instance that the victimized one would leave, and anyone who’s staying put as a result of that threat needs to seriously realize that staying put is almost as real a threat to your life as leaving, but that leaving at least offers the hope of change and healing.

I am not a professional. I cannot and will not pretend to understand the horrors that happen in some people’s lives. The only thing I know is, hard things can be overcome, and there are people out there who have the ability to help. They’re waiting for you.

If you’ve been a victim, you’re not alone. It happens every millisecond somewhere in the world. People understand more than you think. And you are not the person your victimizer believes you are. You are not a victim. You’re a survivor. You need to fight. You need to realize that you have the basic human right to protect yourself and to expect to be treated in a humane, caring way.

Even if you’re in a marriage, you’re not property. You can be raped by your spouse. Having sex is a choice, not an obligation – despite the fact that I believe sex to be a deeply important part of a relationship. If you do not consent, do not want to do it, and you have expressed that you don’t want to have sex, then it’s rape. There’s a lot of bickering out there sometimes about whether no really means no or if it’s possibly a maybe, but every time I’ve looked it up in the dictionary, “no” has meant exactly what rumour has suggested it means: “to reject or refuse approval.” Hmm. Seems pretty clear to me.

Some people want to be abused in different ways, and they belong to the BDSM society. They like paddles on their asses, clamps on their nipples, flogging with leather, and more. Some walk away from this “past-time” with bruises, welts, and other wounds. Yes, it’s a choice. But it’s also a very structured society built on respect and rules. There’s always a stop word. There are always rules and protocols to follow in the lifestyle, and anyone who doesn’t follow the rules will get a reputation in the circles.

In an abusive relationship, abuse is unwanted. There are no stop words. It’s an exercise of inhumanity – domination over a weaker person, and the willful act of degradation and humiliation, all in an attempt to usurp power and morale.

If you’re not getting the treatment you want in a relationship – whether it’s something as simple as the person not respecting your time or your schedule, or taking advantage of your finances, or blowing up over stupid issues and refusing to resolve them like an adult, or calling you names and mocking you, or something more harsh like their hitting you and demeaning you, or flat-out sexual abuse – then you have every right and every reason to walk.

If you’re being abused, it’s likely that more than one person in your life has seen the signs but doesn’t know how to talk about it with you. It’s likely that they’re waiting for you to ask for help. If you feel can’t trust them, that’s understandable, and then you need to find an organization you can trust – shelters are found in almost every city in the world. Here in Vancouver, we have a terrific organization called Women Against Violence Against Women. There are even underground networks that will help relocate you if your life is in danger.

You deserve happiness. If being together is hurting you, you need to explore your options and find the strength to change your life. Leaving isn’t the end of the world – it’s the end of a cycle. The start of something new. The start of you having courage, pride, and the strength of will to realize that you are not your legacy, and pasts don’t need to become our futures.

Do a Google search for: violence, women, shelters, and your hometown. Be careful. Be brave.

Here are some statistics about abuse in the world:

• In both the WHO’s international study (featuring Bangladesh, Brazil, Ethiopia, Japan, Namibia, Peru, Samoa, Serbia, Thailand, and Tanzania) and in American-based studies, more than 25% of those asked (including men) have experienced violence in a relationship, and most said it had happened in their present relationship.
• Only about half of domestic violence is reported to authorities in the United States, with African-American women being more likely to report their abusers. (Good for them.)
• 25% of women and 8% of men in the American National Violence Against Women Survey reported they had been raped and/or assaulted at least once in their lives. (I’m fortunate, it has never happened to me in any way.)
• Rape victims often experience anxiety, guilt, nervousness, phobias, substance abuse, sleep disturbances, depression, alienation, sexual dysfunction, and aggression. They often distrust others and replay the assault in their minds, and they are at increased risk of future victimization (DeLahunta 1997).
• A 1996 study showed that women who had been victimized sexually and with battery showed all the same post-traumatic symptoms experienced by survivors of wars and natural disasters.
• More than HALF of all rapes against women occur before the age of 18, and more than 22% occur before the age of 12 in America.
• Domestic violence occurs in 25 – 33% of same-sex relationships.
• Annually, approximately 50,000 women and children are trafficked into America for sexual slavery and/or forced labour.
• In South Africa, a woman is raped e
  very 83 seconds.
• In Bangladesh, more than 70% of women report violence in their relationships.
• Here in Canada, a study in the late ‘80s showed that more than 60% of women murdered were killed by their partners, a statistic that mirrors that of Zimbabwe and many other countries.

Violence is unacceptable. Regardless of how daunting and horrifying some of these statistics are, abusers are not omnipresent in our society. There are men, and women, who know how to love, cherish, and dote on their partners. I’m one, and every man I’ve been with has been one. I look for early warning signs: Is their anger in keeping with the situation? Are they aggressive drivers? Do they treat others with disdain and humiliation? Do they belittle me when I’m trying to trust them? Do they respect my needs? Do they know how to resolve conflict with conversation? Do they know how to take a deep breath and walk away for ten minutes when things are heated? If not, I know they’re not the fit for me. Little things are huge in the grand scheme of things, if you really know what you’re looking for. Don’t underestimate the early warning signs, and don’t let violence happen a second time. “Sorry” is the easiest thing in the world to say. Don’t believe it.

Statistics found on feminist.com and who.org.
Photos taken from who.org, and The European Parliament.