THE BASICS
1. What’s your full name?
Aaron Alexander Feldman
2. Age?
21
3. City?
Toronto
4. What are you doing right now?
Answering this quiz lol
5. What are you listening to right now?
New Wolf Parade cd
FAVOURITES
6. Favourite colour?
Orange
7. Favourite Food?
barbecue duck on rice
8. Favourite movie?
Lol all of them
9. Favourite band?
Depends what mood I’m in, usually Arcade Fire
10. Favourite musical?
Mmm Cabaret maybe?
HAVE YOU EVER?
11. …slept in the same bed as someone of the opposite sex?
Yes
12. …laughed so hard you cried?
Yes
13. …kissed in the rain?
No
14. …been responsible for the death of a friend or loved one?
…what?
15. You heard me.
What kind of question is that?
16. Just answer it. Have you ever been responsible for the death of a friend or loved one?
I… no!
17. Are you sure about that?
Of course!
18. February 13th, 2006. Does that date mean anything to you?
What is this? Who the hell do you think you are?
19. I’m asking the questions. February 13th. Yes or no?
This is crazy. I don’t have to answer that.
20. How old do you think she’d be if she were alive today?
…
21. Hello? You still there?
She would’ve been 22.
22. She wanted to be a doctor, right?
A… she wanted to be a veterinarian.
23. That’s right. She loved animals.
I don’t want to do this anymore. Please. I-
24. And her voice. She had the most beautiful singing voice. What was that song she’d sing in the car?
Why are you doing this to me?
25. Oh, I remember. “Who will save your soul.”
She… loved that song…
26. She loved you too, you know.
I… I knew that. I loved her too!
27. Did you really? Is that what someone does to someone they love?
It wasn’t like that. It was an accident.
28. An accident.
Yes!
29. You’re telling me you did everything you could to save her.
You think I don’t regret what happened? You think I haven’t thought about her every day for the past two years?
30. What was the last thing she said to you that night?
No… no… don’t do this. Please.
31. I’m sorry, was that you answering the question?
I can’t… no more… please…
32. Are you sure?
Yes… no more… please… Just… just ask me normal questions… I… can’t do this…
33. Fine. Most embarrassing moment?
… what?
34. Most embarrassing moment?
It… it was in grade 7. I was getting out of the pool and Matt Beamish pantsed me. I was wearing underwear underneath my swim shorts.
35. Earliest memory?
Sitting in a high chair, around 2 years old. I was eating ice cream and getting it all over my face.
36. Best vacation?
Probably France.
37. Aaron?
Yes?
38. Why did you let me die?
Oh god.
39. Why did you let me die?
Oh god no.
40. Why did you let me die?
Not you…
41. Why did you let me die?
I didn’t-
42. Why did you let me die?
… never would have…
43. Why did you let me die?
…I can’t… I don’t…
44. Why did you let me die?
Please…
45. Why did you let me die?
…don’t… do this…
46. Why did you let me die?
Michelle…
47. Why did you let me die?
BECAUSE I WAS SCARED.
48. …
49. Of what?
Of a world where you were in pain. Of a world where people could hurt you and take advantage of you. Of a world that would teach you to hate and become as warped and bitter as I was. I could have saved you. I know that. Oh god I know that… but you would have hated me for that. It wasn’t my call to make, I know. And for that I’m truly sorry.
50. …
Michelle…
51. …
…Are you still there?
52. Summer or Winter?
Winter, definitely.
53. Chocolate or vanilla?
Vanilla ice cream with strawberry sauce.
54. Do you have a crush on anyone?
Mmmmaybe lol
55. Worst injury?
February 13th, 2006
56. Person most likely to take this quiz?
Hmm I dunno, maybe Dan?
57. Person least likely to take this quiz?
Um, probably Michelle.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
The Real Hot Dogs
Last night I saw the second Narnia film, Prince Caspian, because I hate owning 12 dollars. Although I was fairly ambivalent about the movie, I still love watching films on opening nights because you potentially get to witness never-before-seen trailers before having them ruined on the internet.
Case in point...
I really don't know what to say about this trailer. I was considering being sarcastic and writing a post about how "awesome" this movie looks, but frankly I just can't bring myself to do it.
Because Oh. My. God.
I think, watching that trailer for the first time in theatres, I fully experienced the five stages of grief (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance). Oh, and I also shat out of my mouth.
I really didn't like Prince Caspian, and I have a feeling that this trailer is partly to blame. Whenever something good happened in the movie, I'd be like "Awesome. Oh wait, I'm living in a world where Beverly Hills Chihuahua is possible. Fuck my life."
That being said, I'd argue that the advertisers may be genuises, because in the past 24 hours this trailer has been all I've managed to talk about. Well played, Disney. Well played.
Oh no wait. Fuck You.
Case in point...
I really don't know what to say about this trailer. I was considering being sarcastic and writing a post about how "awesome" this movie looks, but frankly I just can't bring myself to do it.
Because Oh. My. God.
I think, watching that trailer for the first time in theatres, I fully experienced the five stages of grief (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance). Oh, and I also shat out of my mouth.
I really didn't like Prince Caspian, and I have a feeling that this trailer is partly to blame. Whenever something good happened in the movie, I'd be like "Awesome. Oh wait, I'm living in a world where Beverly Hills Chihuahua is possible. Fuck my life."
That being said, I'd argue that the advertisers may be genuises, because in the past 24 hours this trailer has been all I've managed to talk about. Well played, Disney. Well played.
Oh no wait. Fuck You.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
15 Jokes about Bananas I wrote in my Shakespeare II class instead of taking notes
Q: What do you call a fruit that plays tennis?
A: Banana Kournikova
Q: What do you call a fruit that has an affair in 19th century Russian literature?
A: Banana Karenina
Q: What do you call a fruit that sits three seats over from me in my Shakespeare II class?
A: Bananacleto D'Alessandro
Q: What do you call a fruit that stars in Téléfrançais?
A: Banananas
Q: What do you call it when you liken something to a fruit?
A: Bananalogy
Q: What do you call it when you study a fruit?
A: Bananalysis
Q: What do you call a fruit who starred in the Hulk?
A: Eric Banana
Q: What do you call a fruit who starred in Magnolia?
A: Tom Cruise
Q: Where do fruits go to shop for clothes?
A: Human Republic
Knock Knock
-Who's there?
Banana
-Banana who?
Banana na, na na na na. Hey hey hey, good bye.
Q: How did the banana avoid getting arrested?
A: He gave the cops the slip.
Q: Why did the banana go to see the doctor?
A: He had cancer.
Q: What's a fruit's favourite type of sex?
A: Bananal
Q: Why did the banana cross the road?
A: There was a Human Republic across the street (see above joke)
Q: What do you call it when you rearrange a fruit to form other fruits?
A: Bananagram
"Those are funny jokes, Aaron."
A: Banana Kournikova
Q: What do you call a fruit that has an affair in 19th century Russian literature?
A: Banana Karenina
Q: What do you call a fruit that sits three seats over from me in my Shakespeare II class?
A: Bananacleto D'Alessandro
Q: What do you call a fruit that stars in Téléfrançais?
A: Banananas
Q: What do you call it when you liken something to a fruit?
A: Bananalogy
Q: What do you call it when you study a fruit?
A: Bananalysis
Q: What do you call a fruit who starred in the Hulk?
A: Eric Banana
Q: What do you call a fruit who starred in Magnolia?
A: Tom Cruise
Q: Where do fruits go to shop for clothes?
A: Human Republic
Knock Knock
-Who's there?
Banana
-Banana who?
Banana na, na na na na. Hey hey hey, good bye.
Q: How did the banana avoid getting arrested?
A: He gave the cops the slip.
Q: Why did the banana go to see the doctor?
A: He had cancer.
Q: What's a fruit's favourite type of sex?
A: Bananal
Q: Why did the banana cross the road?
A: There was a Human Republic across the street (see above joke)
Q: What do you call it when you rearrange a fruit to form other fruits?
A: Bananagram
Monday, February 11, 2008
Aaron Feldman: Sex Columnist
Campus Kiss, the University of Windsor's very own sex column, has always been reputed for its ability to tackle many of the relevant issues facing today's sexually active youth. As a result, it is widely regarded as one of the most constantly rewarding sections of our university paper.
Personally, whenever I pick up my copy of the The Lance, the first thing I do is flip to the back and read what Ali the Sexpert has to say about the world. Sometimes funny, sometimes shocking, always informative, Campus Kiss has been a guiding force for many a young student on the cusp of sexual awakening.
So you can imagine my shock and delight, then, when The Lance asked me to write a guest-column.
Now, most people who know me know that I have the sexual technique of a cactus, but that didn't stop me from trying to write the most informative and hard-hitting sex column I could muster. While I severely doubt that I was able to touch upon the considerable precedent that Ali the Sexpert had established, I gave it my best. And damnit, if I can help just one university student reach their sexual awakening, then I've done my job.
You can read the article here. If anyone has any questions they feel weren't answered in my article, feel free to ask me any time.
Personally, whenever I pick up my copy of the The Lance, the first thing I do is flip to the back and read what Ali the Sexpert has to say about the world. Sometimes funny, sometimes shocking, always informative, Campus Kiss has been a guiding force for many a young student on the cusp of sexual awakening.
So you can imagine my shock and delight, then, when The Lance asked me to write a guest-column.
Now, most people who know me know that I have the sexual technique of a cactus, but that didn't stop me from trying to write the most informative and hard-hitting sex column I could muster. While I severely doubt that I was able to touch upon the considerable precedent that Ali the Sexpert had established, I gave it my best. And damnit, if I can help just one university student reach their sexual awakening, then I've done my job.
You can read the article here. If anyone has any questions they feel weren't answered in my article, feel free to ask me any time.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Fun things I do that aren't on this site
I wrote a newish post on The Offline Production blog about our double-film shoot last week. Check it out here. Perhaps a sign of my priorities, about two paragraphs are dedicated to the actual filming (one per video), and the rest is about the McDonald's breakfast I had.
And while I'm linking to things, here is a recent play review I wrote for the Windsor University paper, The Lance. Despite the fact that I got really drunk halfway through writing it, it's still fairly boring because the Arts Editor did a pretty thorough job editing out my drunken ramblings. For example, what now reads, "the insights gained from attending the discussion certainly enhanced the enjoyment of the performance," used to be, "I was a good person. I gave and I gave but it wasn't enough for her. I need to take a piss. I'm hungry." Give it read if you want, but you probably don't.
And, naturally, check out The Offline if you haven't been recently. There's a new Rewind Podcast, and the "about us" section has been updated. This blog is technically supposed to be somewhat of a supplement to that site, but odds are you wouldn't know that right now, since at the moment the site links to my Mad Blogs site instead.
What the hell, while I'm throwing out links, go do a Mad Blog.
-Aaron
Update (20/11): I just listened to the new Rewind Podcast, and on top of it being pretty fucking funny, they mention my Offline Production Post in like the last minute of the show. Check it out, if only for that.
And while I'm linking to things, here is a recent play review I wrote for the Windsor University paper, The Lance. Despite the fact that I got really drunk halfway through writing it, it's still fairly boring because the Arts Editor did a pretty thorough job editing out my drunken ramblings. For example, what now reads, "the insights gained from attending the discussion certainly enhanced the enjoyment of the performance," used to be, "I was a good person. I gave and I gave but it wasn't enough for her. I need to take a piss. I'm hungry." Give it read if you want, but you probably don't.
And, naturally, check out The Offline if you haven't been recently. There's a new Rewind Podcast, and the "about us" section has been updated. This blog is technically supposed to be somewhat of a supplement to that site, but odds are you wouldn't know that right now, since at the moment the site links to my Mad Blogs site instead.
What the hell, while I'm throwing out links, go do a Mad Blog.
-Aaron
Update (20/11): I just listened to the new Rewind Podcast, and on top of it being pretty fucking funny, they mention my Offline Production Post in like the last minute of the show. Check it out, if only for that.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Lies
Growing up, I was always told by my parents that the worst thing to do, out of all the bad things a kid could do, the worst thing by far was to lie. If you did something wrong, it was one thing, but if you then lied about it, then you were officially a Bad Person who was undeserving of love.
Of course, there were obviously worse things than lying, such as murder, treason, and rape, but with me at the age of 8, lying was a bigger concern for my parents. After all, I must have lied 50 times for every one time I committed treason.
I was a compulsive liar. I’d lie about doing my homework, obviously, or whether or not I had done my chores. Those were pretty straightforward lies. But it didn’t stop there. I was also that kid in your class who just made stuff up all the time. As far as my classmates knew, I was a soccer goalie, distant cousins with Sporty Spice, had diabetes, and had killed a man. Come to think of it, I’m surprised I wasn’t the most popular kid in school.
I like to think I’m an honest enough person, that my days of compulsive lying are behind me. And for the most part, I think that’s true. But I don’t think it’s necessarily because I’ve stopped lying. It’s just, lying becomes a lot more socially acceptable when you grow up. I mean, we lie all the time now, only we don’t call it lying. We call it “pretending” or “acting like.” If someone wants to get out of work, they “pretend” they’re sick. If a guy cheats on his girlfriend, he “acts” like nothing happened. No one “lies” anymore.
And what about me? Am I guilty of “pretending” or “acting like?” Well, here’s a fun story that happened to me a few months ago. I’ll let you be the judge…
**********
Early last year, I was at Shopper’s Drug Mart, waiting in line at the checkout. I had been waiting in line for quite some time, which was only a problem because I was pretty sure my meter had run out. I think it was the cashier’s first day. Either that or he was mentally handicapped, and I decided that either way, it wasn’t really his fault, so I shouldn’t let it bother me. I was minding my own business, reading the covers of the latest Betty and Veronica Digests from the magazine rack, when I heard a voice from behind me.
"Aaron.”
It was a female voice. As soon as I heard it, everything else in the room became blurry. I no longer cared about the long line-up. I no longer cared what Jughead thought of Betty’s latest casserole. I no longer cared about who I was, what I was doing with my life, or whether I had gotten a parking ticket (I found out later that I had). All I cared about was that voice. A voice like Audrey Hepburn’s, if she had smoked a bit more and wasn’t European. And then there was the voice’s owner.
Chelsea.
She had been responsible for the best 10 months of my life, followed by the worst 2 years of my life. I can pretty much divide my time on earth into two eras. Before-Chelsea, in which I believed there was good in the world and that a man might find happiness through his virtues. I trusted things like the media, my friends, the wisdom of my elders, and mathematical equations. And then there was the After-Chelsea era, in which the world had been peeled back like the flesh of a corpse in an autopsy room. I realized that not only was life a joke, it was a racist joke told in a room full of black people. My diet in this era consisted solely of alcohol and peach yogurt; my weekends consisted of lying face-up in the deep end of an empty pool (this is not a metaphor). And now here I was, the year 2 AC, standing in front of her. I slowly turned around.
“Oh hey,” I said. “Almost didn’t recognize you there.” Chelsea. My Chelsea.
She looked me up and down. “How have you been?”
“Good. Really great.” I am Post Traumatic Stress Disorder incarnate. How are you? “Yourself?”
“Ups and downs, right?”
“Ha ha.”
“Man, how long has it been?”
“Huh, I have no idea. A year maybe?” 2 years, a month, 7 days, and 2 hours.
“Really? Feels like forever,” she said. She glanced down at my inventory. “What’re you getting?”
“Oh, this and that.”
“Let’s see… some yogurt and… an issue of Cosmo?” She looked back up at me, amused. “What are you reading Cosmo for?”
“Oh, you know, it’s for my girlfriend.” Masturbation.
“Girlfriend, huh?” She smiled. “What’s her name?”
“Jennifer.” Loneliness.
“How long have you been dating?”
“Um, about 6 months I think. Almost six months.” 2 years, a month, 7 days, and 2 hours.
“Half a year. Nice.”
“I do what I can. The trick is we listen to one another.” The thought of touching another woman after you makes me sob uncontrollably. There was a pause in the conversation as the cashier mercifully started ringing me through. Chelsea’s face became serious.
“Hey, I know this might sound random, but do you remember that time we went to Niagra Falls? In the House of Dracula?”
“Was that with you? Yeah, but it’s a bit blurry.” I dream of that weekend all the time. Those are the only nights when I don’t wake up screaming.
“Oh, okay. How about… what about the time we went to Mark's party? That was the first time we…”
“Vaguely.” Those are the nights when I do wake up screaming. “Why do you ask?”
“I just…” She shrugged as I grabbed the bag full of my purchases. “It wasn’t all bad, was it?”
“Honestly?” I said as I headed towards the sliding doors. “I don’t really think about it.” I managed to make it halfway to my house before I had to pull over. I fiercely hit the steering wheel with my fists as tears and mucous flowed down my face. I continued doing this for a few minutes, until I finally passed out.
**********
So there you have it. In retrospect, I did kind of fib a bit. Guess I’m still that same kid I always was!
I’m so cold…
-A
Of course, there were obviously worse things than lying, such as murder, treason, and rape, but with me at the age of 8, lying was a bigger concern for my parents. After all, I must have lied 50 times for every one time I committed treason.
I was a compulsive liar. I’d lie about doing my homework, obviously, or whether or not I had done my chores. Those were pretty straightforward lies. But it didn’t stop there. I was also that kid in your class who just made stuff up all the time. As far as my classmates knew, I was a soccer goalie, distant cousins with Sporty Spice, had diabetes, and had killed a man. Come to think of it, I’m surprised I wasn’t the most popular kid in school.
I like to think I’m an honest enough person, that my days of compulsive lying are behind me. And for the most part, I think that’s true. But I don’t think it’s necessarily because I’ve stopped lying. It’s just, lying becomes a lot more socially acceptable when you grow up. I mean, we lie all the time now, only we don’t call it lying. We call it “pretending” or “acting like.” If someone wants to get out of work, they “pretend” they’re sick. If a guy cheats on his girlfriend, he “acts” like nothing happened. No one “lies” anymore.
And what about me? Am I guilty of “pretending” or “acting like?” Well, here’s a fun story that happened to me a few months ago. I’ll let you be the judge…
**********
Early last year, I was at Shopper’s Drug Mart, waiting in line at the checkout. I had been waiting in line for quite some time, which was only a problem because I was pretty sure my meter had run out. I think it was the cashier’s first day. Either that or he was mentally handicapped, and I decided that either way, it wasn’t really his fault, so I shouldn’t let it bother me. I was minding my own business, reading the covers of the latest Betty and Veronica Digests from the magazine rack, when I heard a voice from behind me.
"Aaron.”
It was a female voice. As soon as I heard it, everything else in the room became blurry. I no longer cared about the long line-up. I no longer cared what Jughead thought of Betty’s latest casserole. I no longer cared about who I was, what I was doing with my life, or whether I had gotten a parking ticket (I found out later that I had). All I cared about was that voice. A voice like Audrey Hepburn’s, if she had smoked a bit more and wasn’t European. And then there was the voice’s owner.
Chelsea.
She had been responsible for the best 10 months of my life, followed by the worst 2 years of my life. I can pretty much divide my time on earth into two eras. Before-Chelsea, in which I believed there was good in the world and that a man might find happiness through his virtues. I trusted things like the media, my friends, the wisdom of my elders, and mathematical equations. And then there was the After-Chelsea era, in which the world had been peeled back like the flesh of a corpse in an autopsy room. I realized that not only was life a joke, it was a racist joke told in a room full of black people. My diet in this era consisted solely of alcohol and peach yogurt; my weekends consisted of lying face-up in the deep end of an empty pool (this is not a metaphor). And now here I was, the year 2 AC, standing in front of her. I slowly turned around.
“Oh hey,” I said. “Almost didn’t recognize you there.” Chelsea. My Chelsea.
She looked me up and down. “How have you been?”
“Good. Really great.” I am Post Traumatic Stress Disorder incarnate. How are you? “Yourself?”
“Ups and downs, right?”
“Ha ha.”
“Man, how long has it been?”
“Huh, I have no idea. A year maybe?” 2 years, a month, 7 days, and 2 hours.
“Really? Feels like forever,” she said. She glanced down at my inventory. “What’re you getting?”
“Oh, this and that.”
“Let’s see… some yogurt and… an issue of Cosmo?” She looked back up at me, amused. “What are you reading Cosmo for?”
“Oh, you know, it’s for my girlfriend.” Masturbation.
“Girlfriend, huh?” She smiled. “What’s her name?”
“Jennifer.” Loneliness.
“How long have you been dating?”
“Um, about 6 months I think. Almost six months.” 2 years, a month, 7 days, and 2 hours.
“Half a year. Nice.”
“I do what I can. The trick is we listen to one another.” The thought of touching another woman after you makes me sob uncontrollably. There was a pause in the conversation as the cashier mercifully started ringing me through. Chelsea’s face became serious.
“Hey, I know this might sound random, but do you remember that time we went to Niagra Falls? In the House of Dracula?”
“Was that with you? Yeah, but it’s a bit blurry.” I dream of that weekend all the time. Those are the only nights when I don’t wake up screaming.
“Oh, okay. How about… what about the time we went to Mark's party? That was the first time we…”
“Vaguely.” Those are the nights when I do wake up screaming. “Why do you ask?”
“I just…” She shrugged as I grabbed the bag full of my purchases. “It wasn’t all bad, was it?”
“Honestly?” I said as I headed towards the sliding doors. “I don’t really think about it.” I managed to make it halfway to my house before I had to pull over. I fiercely hit the steering wheel with my fists as tears and mucous flowed down my face. I continued doing this for a few minutes, until I finally passed out.
**********
So there you have it. In retrospect, I did kind of fib a bit. Guess I’m still that same kid I always was!
I’m so cold…
-A
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tales From My Inbox
Earlier last month, for what reason I'll never know, I decided to sift through my junk e-mail. There was the usual crap: sweepstake offers, penis enlargement offers, messages from my mother, not to mention unsettling combinations of the three. One item, however, was titled "Love vs. Sex," and caught my eye. Now, I have a great fondness for the former and a, well, nodding acquaintance with the latter, so I'll admit I was intrigued by the title, not least of all by the use of a "vs."
"Love will win," I predicted as I clicked on the title, expecting to witness the battle to end all battles. What I got, however, was so much more. So. Much. More.
A teenage girl about 17, the e-mail began, had gone to visit some friends one evening and time passed quickly as each shared their various experiences of the past year. She ended up staying longer than planned, and had to walk home alone.
“Oh no!” I yelled aloud when I finished the first paragraph. “No good can come of this!” I was hooked. I had to read on. Sure enough, my concerns were not misplaced. On her walk home, the protagonist, who I soon discovered to be named Diane, decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway…
However, halfway down the alley she noticed a man standing at the end as though he were waiting for her.
“Bad news bears!” I exclaimed. What was she going to do, I wondered. Would she simply turn back, like a rational being? Would she take out her cell phone and call a friend? Would she start audibly complaining about her “damn herpes?” Nay…
She became uneasy and began to pray, asking for God's protection.
While this was not the most obvious choice, it seemed to have worked, as she was able to pass right by him and make it to her house safely. All’s well that ends well, it seems.
BUT WAIT! There’s more! Apparently the next day, Diane was reading the news, and discovered that a young girl had been raped in the very same alleyway just twenty minutes after Diane had been there. I’m a bit confused as to how a story of a local raping that occurred fairly late in the night could appear in the newspaper the very next morning, but that’s so not the point.
So Diane, the e-mail says, started weeping at this tragedy, but also made sure to thank the Lord for her own safety, because she’s awesome. Anyways, she then decided to go to the police station. It seems the rape victim, in addition to being a heathen, was also suffering from a short attention span, because the rapist still had to be identified. Which Diane did, forcing the rapist to confess.
Now here’s the kicker:
The officer thanked Diane for her bravery and asked if there was anything they could do for her.
She asked if they would ask the man one question.
Diane was curious as to why he had not attacked her.
When the policeman asked him, he answered, "Because she wasn't alone. She had two tall men walking on either side of her."
Amazingly, the e-mail concluded, whether you believe or not, you're never alone. Did you know that 98% of teenagers will not stand up for God?
Repost this as Love vs. Sex if you truly believe in God.
"Ah," I thought, reading the last sentence, "so that explains the misleading title." Was I angered, however, by the deception? Hardly. On the contrary, I was thankful. Thankful that I had been (mis)led to read this frankly enlightening piece.
Now I knew: if I ever faced a dark stranger in an alley, all I had to do was pray for God's protection. Does it work? I've been praying for God's protection for the past month, and I can happily report that I'm rape-free. Thank you, random classmate who I never normally talk to! Your chain-mail saved my life!
But now that I had been enlightened, what was I going to do about it?
I printed off about 50 copies, and started to distribute them around. Only I didn't use the title "Love vs. Sex." I didn't feel the title did the piece justice. My revised title called it out for what it was: "Avoiding Rape." I even sent a few copies to the local rape ward (or "Unbelievers Central," as I now call it), with a note attached at the end:
Kinda obvious, when you think about it, eh? I know it's "too late" etc. etc., but thought I'd send it anyways. After all, "Fool me Twice" and all that.
-A
What's more, I can safely say that after having read that e-mail, I'm now part of the 2 percent of people who stand up for God. The next time I see bullies kicking sand in God's face, I'll take them aside and say "Hey. Stop that. How'd you like it if someone kicked sand in YOUR face?"
And they won't be able to respond, because they'd know that they wouldn't like it at all.
"Love will win," I predicted as I clicked on the title, expecting to witness the battle to end all battles. What I got, however, was so much more. So. Much. More.
A teenage girl about 17, the e-mail began, had gone to visit some friends one evening and time passed quickly as each shared their various experiences of the past year. She ended up staying longer than planned, and had to walk home alone.
“Oh no!” I yelled aloud when I finished the first paragraph. “No good can come of this!” I was hooked. I had to read on. Sure enough, my concerns were not misplaced. On her walk home, the protagonist, who I soon discovered to be named Diane, decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway…
However, halfway down the alley she noticed a man standing at the end as though he were waiting for her.
“Bad news bears!” I exclaimed. What was she going to do, I wondered. Would she simply turn back, like a rational being? Would she take out her cell phone and call a friend? Would she start audibly complaining about her “damn herpes?” Nay…
She became uneasy and began to pray, asking for God's protection.
While this was not the most obvious choice, it seemed to have worked, as she was able to pass right by him and make it to her house safely. All’s well that ends well, it seems.
BUT WAIT! There’s more! Apparently the next day, Diane was reading the news, and discovered that a young girl had been raped in the very same alleyway just twenty minutes after Diane had been there. I’m a bit confused as to how a story of a local raping that occurred fairly late in the night could appear in the newspaper the very next morning, but that’s so not the point.
So Diane, the e-mail says, started weeping at this tragedy, but also made sure to thank the Lord for her own safety, because she’s awesome. Anyways, she then decided to go to the police station. It seems the rape victim, in addition to being a heathen, was also suffering from a short attention span, because the rapist still had to be identified. Which Diane did, forcing the rapist to confess.
Now here’s the kicker:
The officer thanked Diane for her bravery and asked if there was anything they could do for her.
She asked if they would ask the man one question.
Diane was curious as to why he had not attacked her.
When the policeman asked him, he answered, "Because she wasn't alone. She had two tall men walking on either side of her."
Amazingly, the e-mail concluded, whether you believe or not, you're never alone. Did you know that 98% of teenagers will not stand up for God?
Repost this as Love vs. Sex if you truly believe in God.
"Ah," I thought, reading the last sentence, "so that explains the misleading title." Was I angered, however, by the deception? Hardly. On the contrary, I was thankful. Thankful that I had been (mis)led to read this frankly enlightening piece.
Now I knew: if I ever faced a dark stranger in an alley, all I had to do was pray for God's protection. Does it work? I've been praying for God's protection for the past month, and I can happily report that I'm rape-free. Thank you, random classmate who I never normally talk to! Your chain-mail saved my life!
But now that I had been enlightened, what was I going to do about it?
I printed off about 50 copies, and started to distribute them around. Only I didn't use the title "Love vs. Sex." I didn't feel the title did the piece justice. My revised title called it out for what it was: "Avoiding Rape." I even sent a few copies to the local rape ward (or "Unbelievers Central," as I now call it), with a note attached at the end:
Kinda obvious, when you think about it, eh? I know it's "too late" etc. etc., but thought I'd send it anyways. After all, "Fool me Twice" and all that.
-A
What's more, I can safely say that after having read that e-mail, I'm now part of the 2 percent of people who stand up for God. The next time I see bullies kicking sand in God's face, I'll take them aside and say "Hey. Stop that. How'd you like it if someone kicked sand in YOUR face?"
And they won't be able to respond, because they'd know that they wouldn't like it at all.
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