Before the sort of bad thing happened, I believed that I was the kind of woman to whom sort of bad things didn’t happen. After all, I am clever, white, and a feminist, but not so much of a feminist that that it’s off-putting. Like, I’m just barely enough of a feminist to get published on this site, so please do not hold that against me in the comments. Plus, I am middle class and have been to college, which is statistically proven to prevent not only sort of bad things, but also absolutely horrible things and even minor inconveniences.
Now I have established that I am very much like you and thus deserving of your empathy, unlike people who are not like you, and can proceed tell you more about the thing that happened, since you only clicked this link to see if the thing that happened to me was actually all that bad.
When the thing I’m about to describe happened, I was younger than I am now because it happened in the past. It happened partially due my own naivety but also for other reasons that are obvious to you. Be sure to list them in the comments below.
It was absolutely horrible and possibly sort of sexual. Pretend that here I have sketched in graphic detail the exact sequence of events in excruciating detail. Now you are free to skim the rest of the article or close this window entirely, since you only clicked this link to read exactly how the sort of bad thing went down. But trust me, I did not enjoy experiencing the horrible thing you’ve just kind of creepily enjoyed reading about.
I thought that this particular sort of bad thing only happened to women who were not clever or not white or had the kind of jobs that you go to college to avoid having. In short, this sort of thing is supposed to happen to the people I feel sorry for and totally retweet about helping.
But did you know that the not absolutely devastating but still pretty bad thing that happened to me could happen to anyone? Even white people? It can. Here are some statistics to support the veracity of my statement.
Worse things than this happen to people all the time. But the first hand accounts of those things are generally sold to better publications, and/or have gone out of style. Like the Holocaust or Rwanda. This sort of bad thing was nowhere near as bad as those things, nor am I pretending it is. However, this sort of bad thing is still very unpleasant and maybe sexual. It is also a very trendy bandwagon cause right now. That is why the editors picked it.
I am doing better than I was when the bad thing was happening to me. Let me tell you that hardship has made me realize my own strength because this type of essay is supposed to say that at the end. I am not at all obsessed with this bad thing to the point where I can’t live a regular life and never stop thinking and/or talking about it. That’s not why I published this essay. It could be that I published a salacious account of my own misfortune for the fifty bucks this site paid me. Or I could just need a publication for my CV and having this site on my resume might help me get a job in one of those cool startups with hardwood floors and ironic throw pillows on the comfy chairs they have instead of desks.
This site isn’t hiring. I already checked.