Don’t. F*cking. Touch Me.

I was scrolling through Instagram this morning when I came across a post by one of the artists I follow. She was posting about how when she was out in town today, a man approached her directly and aggressively, so he could grab her arms and “look” at the tattoos there. As I read through the comments, almost every person that commented was a woman, talking about her own similar experiences. And naturally, I couldn’t help but think about mine.

The artist in question mentioned how she was disappointed in herself for “standing there like a lost lamb” instead of reacting, and I got angry. Not because she was disappointed with herself, but because some guy, some creepy random dude, had made her feel that way. The scary truth is that this shit happens every day. People get assaulted, accosted, inappropriately touched without their consent. And it happens each and every time, because someone has taken it upon themselves to intentionally invade another person’s space and push their boundaries.

I have had many experiences in my life where I have been touched by someone, stranger or friend, when I didn’t give my permission. One of the most notable of these had quite an impact on me. As a teenage girl, waiting at the local shopping centre for a friend of mine one day after school, I noticed an older man with long hair and a beard. I didn’t pay him too much attention, right until he came up to me from behind, stood close, buried his face in my hair and took a long, audible sniff. I nearly screamed, and ran. I was young, I was uncomfortable, I had been touched by a stranger in a weird and inappropriate way. To this day, I can’t stand to have people touch my hair.

I remember another night, a few years later, sitting at a bar with my best friend. I was wearing a dress that had a low back because it was cute, and it made me feel pretty, and it really went with my shoes. I was having a drink and a laugh; listening to the band and having a good time. Suddenly I felt a stranger’s fingers run from the top of my spine down to the back of my dress. I turned, realizing I had raised my hand. The man who had touched me tried to explain away his actions by saying “I just wanted to look at your tattoo”. Shaking, goosebumps covering my entire body, I told him to get away from me. When he again tried to tell me that he just liked my tattoo, I told him that his poor excuse didn’t give him any right to touch me. I saw him return to his friends and say something to them, after which they all turned to stare at me. I spent the rest of the night on edge. I didn’t wear that dress again.

But, don’t get me wrong here, it’s not just men I have experienced this behaviour with. A couple of years ago I was in line at JB Hi-Fi, waiting for some paperwork for the purchase of a tablet. Out of nowhere, I felt two hands grab my shoulders and physically spin me around. It was so unexpected, I nearly fell over, having to grab hold of a nearby display to keep myself upright. Seemingly oblivious to my near fall, was the woman who was grabbing handfuls of my dress and actually running her hands over my waist, my hips and my thighs. I yanked the fabric out of her hands and stepped away with what I imagine was a look of combined rage and shock. She then had the gall to get angry at me and said “I only wanted to look at your dress because it’s so nice. I was giving you a compliment.” I snapped. Long gone was the teenager who would run away from strangers. I told the woman to get away from me, and that if she touched me again I would hit her. I told her she had no right to touch me without my permission. I said it calmly, but I meant every word. She left, muttering obscenities under her breath, and I went back to me paperwork, acutely aware of the stares I was getting from the people around me.

The thing is, in all of these situations, the people who touched me didn’t seem to understand, or want to admit, that they were in the wrong. They each tried to justify their actions. Y’all, if you “only want to look” you don’t look at people with your hands. That’s now how looking works! I mean, I grew up being told “you can look, but don’t touch”. It was a mantra drummed into us as children, and where I once knew I wasn’t allowed to touch that Ballgown Barbie on the shelf, I know now that I’m not allowed to touch another person without their consent. So why is it such a foreign concept to some people? No one, and I do mean no one has the right to accost you. Not because of the way you are dressed. Not because of the tattoos that you have. Not because they like your hair, or your jewelry, or your fingernail polish, or your shoes. I’ll say it again for the people in the back; NO ONE HAS THE RIGHT TO TOUCH YOU. WITHOUT. YOUR. CONSENT.

No ifs, no buts, no excuses.

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People Watching

Yesterday I went to an all day music festival. Some great Australian bands played, headlined by Suzi Quatro. I only went as a last minute thing, as the original ticket holder couldn’t go and asked if I wanted to take the spare. It wasn’t a bad day, despite the heat, and I had a pretty good time just chillin’ and blissing out.

When there’s a crowd of such magnitude all congregating in one place, the people watching aspect is almost as interesting as the live music. One thing to note, is that the bands that played yesterday were largely from the 80’s and 90’s, so the crowd was predominantly people in their late 30’s and older. The younger ones seemed less interested in the music, and more excited for the prospect of getting dressed up in matching outfits and getting day drunk. But it was the older people there that really caught my attention.

Whenever I attend a music gig I can’t help but notice the usual suspects. Not specific people, but rather the groups of people. There’s always the overly loud, brash middle aged men who draw attention to themselves (not to mention many filthy looks) by being as crass and obnoxious as possible. There’s the older women seemingly desperate to recapture their lost youth, wearing short shorts, and push up bras under sheer tops, hugging each other while they raise their lighters and drunkenly serenade back to the musicians. And then, of course, there’s the couple who can’t help but have a full on domestic right there in public. Yesterday, I was quite literally surrounded by all of those particular groups.

People, as a whole, are quite fascinating. The way they carry themselves, the way they dress (or don’t dress, as was the situation yesterday for many concert attendees), the way they interact. I can’t help but watch. Then again, a lot of the time people are just plain awful, as I discovered when I went to leave and found that someone – or more accurately, a few someones – had pissed all over the side of my car. I mean, there were toilets, and even trees if they got really desperate, but they decided instead to urinate, in a line, right on my car. Out of all the hundreds of cars there, they chose mine. Just my luck.

As interesting as people can be, I’m definitely one to sit on the sidelines and watch, rather than interact. I guess you could say people watching is my favourite spectator sport. Not being a people person means that observation is key, so long as no one tries to talk to me.

I’m Not Surly, It’s Just My Face

“Oi, you!”

You’d look like that if someone ‘oi’-ed you, too.

That’s how the conversation started this morning. Rude, right? Now, you should know that I’m not easily offended. What I am, is easily angered. And the interaction this morning, with a guy who works near me, raised my ire. This guy is in his early fifties perhaps, and has a tendency to strike up conversations on his way past my shop. This began a couple of months ago, when he greeted me as if we had known each other for years, despite me having never laid eyes on him before that day. I disliked him immediately. See, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s when complete strangers are too familiar too soon. You don’t know me, you are not my friend; you do not get to talk to me as if we have a long standing relationship. Some of you may argue that he was just being friendly, but there is a difference between polite affability, and a straight up invasive personality. Trust me when I say that this guy has a serious case of the latter.

Over the last few months, we have had a series of short conversations. Despite my dislike of this man, I have always been perfectly polite. But his habit of asking personal questions, and making assumptions has continued. On several occasions, and in a few different ways, he has asked me if I have a boyfriend; questions I have always dodged. First of all, none of his business. And second of all, none of his business. Another time, he made an assumption about me having children, which is something I did correct him on. That then followed with the typical “You’ll change your mind” response, which I didn’t deign to acknowledge. He has made comments about wanting to take me to the pub so he can see me when I’m drunk, and comments about how I must be my parent’s favourite child, with no context. Basically, he’s weird.

I could give you plenty of other examples when this guy’s familiarity has made me irritable, but then we’ll be here all day. Today’s comment, however, is where this post began. So, after he called out to me with the aforementioned “OI”, he approached the shop and said, completely apropos of nothing, “What’s the matter with you? I saw you the other day and you looked really surly so I thought I better not come over.”

Now, you might be wondering why that seemingly innocuous comment made me so angry. It’s due to a few things. Firstly, the condescending tone (which I can’t properly convey here, so you’ll have to take my word for it.) Secondly, the way he managed to make it sound as though his not approaching my shop for mundane conversation was a loss for me. I have any number of boring conversations in an 8.5 hour period, man. You are not the highlight of my workday. And thirdly, the assumption that just because I’m not cheery and chirpy every single second of the day, that there must be something the matter with me. Let me be perfectly clear. I do not exist to indulge his (or anyone’s) flawed, archaic ideas of what a woman is supposed to be. And I will not apologise for being a human, with an entire spectrum of human emotions. I am not some Stepford wife, and I am under no obligation to appear perpetually cheerful.

Sure, I could smile all the time, but there are a couple of problems with that. I mean, let’s be perfectly honest here; I would look like a legitimate maniac. The other problem is that after all that smiling, my face would ache. And working in customer service is painful enough as it is. Besides, maybe if I look surly enough, old mate across the way will stop talking to me altogether.

People Are the F*cking Worst

You know, I really fucking hate people.

I was raised to be a decent human being. I offer petrol money if I get a lift somewhere. I help out my friends if and when they need it. I accept responsibility for the things I do wrong, admit my fault, and graciously accept the repercussions. But apparently not everyone has the same conscience that I do. And it’s those people; those inconsiderate, conscience-less individuals, that really make me angry.

I work at a shopping centre. There is no staff car park, and the parking bays themselves are not particularly wide. Nevertheless, I am constantly in disgusted awe of the people who simply cannot park properly. I’ve seen all manner of terrible parking, from crooked angles, to parking completely the wrong way across three bays. Trust me, I’ve seen it all. Today, I left work and went to my car, passing several bad parks on the walk. I got to my car, and there it was. A series of long, deep gauges across the front and back doors of the left side of my car.

My photography skills are shit, much like the person who did the damage

Some idiot, probably in a 4WD or large SVU judging by the height of the scratch marks, has tried to pull into the park beside mine, obviously misjudged the distance, and hit me. But then, instead of backing out and realigning the car, they’ve just kept going, scraping their car along the side of mine and leaving both doors noticeably scarred. This in itself is bad enough, but the bad driver clearly didn’t think anything of damaging my car, and then driving away. No note. No apology. No accepting of responsibility.

My car is not quite three years old. I managed to avoid any serious damage for two and a half years. But this damage today is the second time in as many months that someone else has hit my car, in a car park. The first woman didn’t put her handbrake on, and buckled my rear bumper when her car hit mine from behind. I got it fixed through my insurance, the first time I had ever made any kind of claim for anything. But she at least had the common decency to give me her details (even though she was driving unregistered and her plates belonged to a completely different vehicle). But this person today really grinds my gears, for the sheer fact that they didn’t give me the basic common courtesy of accepting their mistake.

Broken bumper.

It’s been hours and I’m still seething. Yes, the damage can be repaired, but it’s going to be at my own cost. And, since the fault isn’t mine, that really smarts.

Seriously. People fucking suck.

Who We Are vs. Who They Think We Are

I’ve been myself for 24 and a bit years. After all that time, those decades (oh my gosh, I’m old), I think it’s safe to say that I know me pretty well. Better than anyone, actually. After all, I have to live inside my own head all day, every day. And yet despite this, I often have people trying to tell me that I’m not who I tell them I am.

There seems to be a string of people this week telling me who I am. Or at least, who they think I am. Friends, family, my boss, and that one security guard at work who seems to get a kind of strange joy out of describing my personality and its characteristics, as he thinks they are. I’ll be honest, usually I just smile and nod, and let them think what they want to think. It’s easier than arguing with them, and they wouldn’t budge from their opinions in any case. But lately, I have to admit that it’s kind of been getting to me a little bit. To constantly have people telling you that they know you better than you, it gets…well, frustratingly tiresome.

Whilst it is true that an opinion cannot necessarily be wrong, these people seem to think that their opinions about me negate the truth about who I actually am. It started with a conversation I had with my dad the other day. I made a joke about being alone forever, which was the beginning of a conversation that culminated in him telling me that he believes I am going to end up with a man. Now, my sexuality as it stands is that I am almost exclusively attracted to women but I am not ruling out the (somewhat faint) possibility that the love of my life might just happen to be a man. I can’t predict the future, and so I cannot say 100% that I will never date a guy. I can’t even say, with full certainty that my dad is wrong. But there was something about the way he said it, and the knowing little smile he had that made me feel the need to reiterate that my attraction to women is not a phase. He conceded to that, but that smile stayed where it was, and I felt somewhat put out by the conversation.

I’ve written about this before, but people have a funny way of projecting their ideas of you, rather than seeing the real you. They will form an idea of you in their heads, and then refuse to acknowledge the blatant truth you put in front of them. Or worse, get angry at you and act like you deceived them when the rose coloured glasses fall away. Like my boss, lovely though he is, who thinks that I’m gentle and lovely, and that my snap quick anger is just a facade. Or the guy a few years ago who told me I was a lot colder in person, because he couldn’t reconcile with the fact that I’m not very good at opening up and sharing, and that I didn’t reciprocate his feelings towards me. When you don’t fit the mould of who people want you to be, they will shape you in their minds, until you appear to them as they imagine you are.

I have never tried to live up to the expectations of me that other people often have. I am always open and honest about exactly who I am, which has a lot to do with why I tend to make a bad first impression. People don’t want to see the “ugly” parts of you. If you show negative emotion, or declare that you don’t like cats, or tell someone that you like to be alone and that the notion of spending time with other people makes you weary and irritable, chances are they will either assume you’re lying, ignore you entirely, or simply decide that you’re not worth their time. Frankly, I’m ok with the last one. If I’m not your kind of person, you’re probably not mine either, and we will both be better off not knowing one another. No harm done.

I believe the best way to get to know a person is to take them at face value, and then wait and see if the mask falls away and reveals the real person underneath, or if they were telling the truth straight away. Don’t try and relate to every aspect of a person, just for the sake of having something in common. Don’t try and change who you are to suit the idea of another person. You are you, just as I am me. And I promise you, we know ourselves better than anyone.

How Do You Make Friends (and Only Alienate People if They Suck)?

I meet people every day. You can’t work in customer service and not meet people. But they’re not the kind of meetings I’m particularly interested in. Unless I get regular customers, who then turn into friends, customer meetings hold no real appeal for me. It’s just business. But it poses the question; how do you meet people? More importantly, how do you meet people when you’re a perpetually angry, misanthropic introvert who is awkward in social situations and feels acutely uncomfortable meeting new people? There’s a Friday afternoon riddle for you.

As you may have gathered if you read my blog even semi regularly, I pretty much think people are the worst. But the flip side of that, is that my life consists almost entirely of work and home, with no real social interaction to break the monotony. And so, as loath as I am to admit it, I think the time has come to break free from my introvert shell, and make an effort to introduce new people into my life. The problem I face however, is that not only do I have very little time to hang out with theoretical people, I don’t even know how to meet them in the first place.

The shop I work at is smack bang between a supermarket and a big chain store. So the people I see every day are either too busy or too far away to try and strike up (probably incredibly awkward) conversation with. And in addition to that, I work on my own, so I don’t even have any work mates to develop a friendship with. I don’t have the time to fit anything more into my schedule, so signing up for a random class is out of the question. And my circle of friends in the city isn’t so large that I’m being invited to parties every other weekend.

I know there are dating sites, but is there such a thing as a friendship site? You know, like a dating site only without the sexual innuendo and expectation of any kind of romance. I’m sure there is, and I just haven’t really considered the notion before, but if there isn’t, there should be.

Look, ideally I would like to be browsing in a bookshop and have a rad stranger approach, tell me they love the book I’m holding, and end up having a long and interesting conversation that turns into a spur of the moment chai date and a friendship begun on the foundations of books and geekery. But let’s face it, my life isn’t a movie, and in reality I would be too wary of a complete stranger to do anything more than politely smile and turn away. But hey, it’s a very pretty fantasy.

Seriously though, I put this to you, because I am in grave danger of only knowing the same three people for my entire life; how the hell do you meet people? Inquiring minds want to know…or at least, I do. Come on, guys. Help.

Commute

The train car is positively drenched in the stink of stale sweat and halitosis. All about me, commuters engaged in mundane conversation, or plugged into electronic devices. One man keeps staring at me, with a look that implies that he thinks if he stares hard enough, he might be able to discern what I’m wearing underneath my clothes. I stare back, and my gaze is unfailing, my expression immovable, challenging him. He looks away. I win.

I plug into my own iPod, and the dulcet tones  of Tomi Joutsen drown out the world inside the carriage. I could almost lose myself in the music, and the words that fly from my fingers, except for that smell. It’s everywhere. It will probably cling to my clothes long after I’ve exited the train. 

Different faces every day, and yet all exactly the same to me. Nameless. Not in the least bit memorable. The only thing remarkable about these vile hordes of humanity is how utterly unremarkable they are. And yet, in a cruel twist of circumstance, I spend more time with these people than I do my own friends. 

Commuting is the most evil of all necessities.