Friday 19; February, 1999
Simon’s friends Aaron and Don were over tonight all sitting around in the dining room staring at Sisi’s puter while I was online on mine. They were bugging me a little bit anyways, being crass and Aaron read over my shoulder the comments I was making to Jo and Matt about them. Anyways, their conversation turned to the recent trial in Italy where a judge ruled that a girl wasn’t raped because she was wearing jeans and “everyone knows that jeans are impossible to remove without help, so the sex was obviously consenting”. That verdict makes me angry enough as it is, but then Don and Aaron started making jokes about planning trips to Italy to take advantage of the situation, talking about cutting holes in a girl’s jeans so they could rape her without fear of consequence. I was speechless with rage. I snapped off the computer without bothering to say goodbye, and stalked out of the room.
I spent the next hour alternating between crying and shaking with rage. Sitting crosslegged on the end of my bed, I listened to Fiona Apple and watched my knuckles turn whiter and whiter. I had to use my right hand to make my left hand release my remote.
How dare they? Who the fuck do they think they are, joking about something like that? I mean, I know that political correctness gets taken too far sometimes, but their comments were quite possibly the most offensive things I have ever heard.
More than anything I wanted Simon to click, to come in and make sure I was okay, but he didn’t. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time, because after my conversation with Isobel this afternoon, I’d just started to understand and begin to come to terms with um stuff and now that’s been interfered with.
Oh god, I’m going to try a new tactic now – and put everything out in the open. Please handle what you’re going to read with care. I’m more fragile than I’d like you to think. And if you want to talk about this at all, please sign that guestbook or use the email address provided.