Imagine this. We are your daughters, our sisters, your friends. The women you laugh with, work with, maybe one day love. Even in our briefest interactions, the barista who knows your order, the colleague who covers your shift, the stranger who holds the door, our lives brush against yours.
Now imagine one of us, pregnant, alone. The rent’s already a stretch, working those shifts are a mare, and now the person who promised to be there has vanished like a Boris Johnson Brexit promise. Our parents love us, but they can’t afford to save us. Maybe they take us in, reshuffling their lives to make space for ours. Maybe there’s no one. Maybe we have nowhere to go. Maybe we don’t make it through this? What next.
And yet, there he is. Pint in hand, ego to match the measure, suit just expensive enough to feign credibility, ranting about how people like us (females) are the problem. How we should’ve been more responsible, made better choices, just tried harder. As if he’ll ever know what it is to be told your choices aren’t yours to make.
Add to all that, the guarantee that Farage and his mob will then go nuts about single mothers, denied an abortion, claiming benefits off the state. What a bunch of utter sanctimonious, odious d**ks. Free speech? They wouldn’t know the first thing about it. Unfortunately, the majority of the media won’t sit down with them and challenge their views in depth and in full public view.
Imagine this. We are your daughters, our sisters, your friends. The women you laugh with, work with, maybe one day love. Even in our briefest interactions, the barista who knows your order, the colleague who covers your shift, the stranger who holds the door, our lives brush against yours.
Now imagine one of us, pregnant, alone. The rent’s already a stretch, working those shifts are a mare, and now the person who promised to be there has vanished like a Boris Johnson Brexit promise. Our parents love us, but they can’t afford to save us. Maybe they take us in, reshuffling their lives to make space for ours. Maybe there’s no one. Maybe we have nowhere to go. Maybe we don’t make it through this? What next.
And yet, there he is. Pint in hand, ego to match the measure, suit just expensive enough to feign credibility, ranting about how people like us (females) are the problem. How we should’ve been more responsible, made better choices, just tried harder. As if he’ll ever know what it is to be told your choices aren’t yours to make.
He will never have to imagine it. But you can.
You should really write. Or maybe you do?
You like might https://archive.org/details/bim_early-english-books-1641-1700_a-new-account-of-east-in_fryer-john_1698 We love the rugs too! ;)
Add to all that, the guarantee that Farage and his mob will then go nuts about single mothers, denied an abortion, claiming benefits off the state. What a bunch of utter sanctimonious, odious d**ks. Free speech? They wouldn’t know the first thing about it. Unfortunately, the majority of the media won’t sit down with them and challenge their views in depth and in full public view.