Article: Slut-shaming meets metaphysical psychobabble

Each time a man connects with a woman sexually and releases his life form energy within her, he leaves a part of his information (DNA) in her birth canal.

‘Casual sex’ with multiple partners can intertwine the energies and spirits of a lot of people into your own aura if they are not severed and cleansed. You become joined to every person with whom your partner has slept, as well as all the partners those people had. This type of “soul clutter” can be felt by your partner’s subconscious. Even if they are not completely in tune or aware of the extra-curricular sexual activities, they still are able to sense the subtle disturbances of multiple energies and/or familiar spirits that have entered causing restlessness and inner turmoil. The longer and more intimate the contact with another person, the more powerful the reinforcement and the interaction of the bond becomes, and all the more difficult it is for them to untangle and leave.

1. What the actual fuck?

Even as a person who has very complicated feelings around sex, who feels there is a distinction between fucking and making love, and who knows undoubtedly that monogamy is a happier situation for her than any variation on polyamory, I still don’t get why people get so uppity about what other people choose to do with their bodies.

Are you happy? Is it consensual? Are you being smart about mitigating risk (pregnancy, STIs, or otherwise)? Good. Then go about your business! Fuck one person. Fuck no one. Fuck multiple consenting adults. Fuck fast, fuck slow. Fuck because you want to get off. Fuck because you want to share something deeply intimate with someone else. Fuck because you want kids. Fuck because you’ve made a permanent decision to not have kids and that kind of freedom is amazing.

Our bodies do not carry a tiny imprint of the DNA of whoever jizzed inside us a week, a month, or ten years ago. We are not who we have slept with and there is no such thing as emotional vibrations or whatever the fuck this article – and I use that term loosely – is talking about. Sex can absolutely be a deeply emotional experience, and the chemical components of semen can be a molotov that encourages bonding between sexual partners. But that doesn’t mean that our bodies carry the memories of all out past partners, and their partners, and their partners’ partners, and so on. People, your genitals are not being haunted by orgasms past.

As a society we need to put an end to this obsession we have with other peoples’ naughty bits and how they do or do not make use of them. Hetero, homo, with one personal or with a hundred people – what people do in the bedroom… or shower… or kitchen table… or balcony overlooking the city – is not anyone’ concern but your own and the people you are sharing your body with. As long as everyone involved is safe, happy, and consenting, who gives a fuck who or how you fuck?

2. Metaphysical word salad bullshit.

Soul clutter, aura, internal temple, vibration system, conjuring powers

I… I can’t even with this. The comments section may also actually drive me mad. What happened to critical thinking? Why is this non-information churned out by assholes like David Wolfe, Food Babe, and whatever cretin is responsible for this load of absolute bullshit so readily accepted and parroted? Why are people fellating the alternative health & medicine industry so goddamn hard?

Rayne Constantine, who runs the Insufferable Intolerance blog on Facebook, encapsulated the whole alternative industry pretty well in her article “7 Ways Alternative Medicine Tricks You Into Thinking It Works“:

Alternative medicine is multi-billion dollar industry, one that is entirely comprised of severely underqualified people who missed out on medical school, acting the role of a healthcare provider, dispensing either untested or proven ineffective materials that act as medicine. It’s an industry that is unregulated and actively attempts to exempt itself from the same standard of rigorous scientific testing, its counterpart Medicine is mandated to adhere to. As the name cleverly implies, alternative medicine is the alternative to medicine – it’s not medicine, it’s not based in science and lacks evidence to support even the fundamental ideas of many of its practices.

I read an article the other day that actually tried to sell the benefits of sleeping with an onion in your sock at night. I’ve read other articles on the benefits of basically sitting spread eagle and dousing your vagina with UV. People who have earned their PhD via the magic of Google will sell you on the benefits of detoxing with juice cleanses because apparently they never learned about the role of say, the liver, in the body. And if your meal isn’t made with organic, non-GMO, gluten-free ingredients at a heavy mark-up then you must be a shill for Big Pharma. Wake up, sheeple!

Jokes aside, this shit is dangerous.

This is the industry that is allowing children to die because their parents believe that vaccines cause autism (a claim stemming from a now-retracted paper published on the Lancet that is unanimously refuted by proponents of evidence-based medicine).

This is the industry that is actively participating in the extinction of animals to facilitate the collection of exotic ingredients for remedies that are unproven to be effective.

This is the industry that is causing people to hemorrhage money to buy products that are ineffective at best and dangerous at worst.

I’d like to leave something here… The Skeptic’s Creed that is recited at the end of every episode of Cognitive Dissonance:

Credulity is not a virtue
its fortune
mommy issue
babylon bullshit
couched in scientician
double bubble toil and
pseudo quasi alternative
accu punctuating pressurized stereogram
pyramidal free energy healing
watered downward spiral brain deadpan sales pitch late night
Leo Pisces cancer-cures detox reflex foot massage
death and towers tarot cards
psychic healing crystals balls
bigfoot yeti aliens
churches mosques and synagogues
giant worms
atlantis dolphins
truthers birthers
witches wizards
shaman healers
conspiracy doublespeak stigmata nonsense
expose your sides
thrust your hands
doubt even this.

The Gentlest Advice I am Capable of Giving

Last week I celebrated a year of relative freedom from crippling depression. April 15th marked the anniversary of an important decision: to try and stand on my own two feet for the first time in 5 years. From the moment I made that decision, I accomplished so many things: I became gainfully employed, I put a definitive stop to an over decade-long addiction to cutting, I weened myself off of a medication that was really only making me more tired and therefore less inclined to take action, I started exercising and eating healthier (hell – that I started eating at all was a miracle, after years of struggling with a nasty combination of GERD and stress-induced nausea), and I forced myself to be more social. These changes instilled in me the strength to handle curveballs with a little more grace than I previously did. I felt better equipped to deal with unpleasant situations than I had in a very long time, and the people around me noticed the changes, too. In the last year I have received more compliments regarding my mental stability than I think I ever have. I am proud of the changes I made, and it feels good to not be the token Girl, Interrupted for a change.

…But just because I boast more stability and confidence now doesn’t mean that it isn’t a struggle every day to maintain some semblance of normalcy on the outside while utter chaos whirlwinds inside me.

A few days ago I got considerable backlash for posting a macro with the sentiment of, “If you want things to change, you have to initiate the change.” A lot of people interpreted it as a down-the-nose sneer at anyone who hasn’t made the fantastic changes that I have, and look at me I am so happy, why can’t you all do what I did, I’ve overcome depression! This is hilarious, in a sad kind of way, given that I am currently going through a rather nasty cycle of depression. The kind of depression that saps me entirely; that is gradually consuming the joy from my life and leaving me with an overwhelming need to just sit, and stare, and sleep. It is a sickness that is touching every part of me right now and by extension the ones I love (that’s what hurts the most, seeing the ones closest to me growing more frantic to help as I slip farther away).

I haven’t got fuck all figured out, to be honest. The only thing I know, the thing that I have to hold desperately close to me when I’ve forgotten all else, is that I am the only one who can make me happy. I can take a medley of pills and cry woe is me! all I want; but, in the end, unless I take the steps to be happy, nothing will change. If there’s only one lesson in life I ever learn, let it be that!

Depression is a sickness and it needs to be treated as such. A cancer patient cannot reach remission without choosing treatment. A diabetic cannot survive without choosing insulin. These are accepted truths. Yes, depression is hard; it is a battle against yourself every goddamn day for the rest of your goddamn life. You still need to choose to treat it. You need to choose happiness over complacency.

I get a lot of flak for my aggressive view on a lot of things. People think I am being an asshole for the sake of it, or because I think I’m superior in some way, or whatever. In the end, I’m just a realist. I value directness and evidence. In an ideal world, no one would suffer from depression and we wouldn’t even need a strategy for managing it; but, as so many can attest to, this world is far from ideal. The reality is that change really does come from within. Things don’t just miraculously get better one day. Anyone who tells you that is either fooling themselves or selling something.

I can’t offer a lot to the people who are struggling with this particular demon as I’m not done with it myself. What I can do is give you resources, so you can make a choice yourself:

Free lesson-by-lesson online cognitive behavioural therapy course:
Crisis chat:
BC chapter of the Canadian Mental Health Association:
The miracle of Google, to find therapists and other resources near you:

Not to mention all the outpatient programs for mental health and addictions available through the various hospitals in the greater Vancouver area.

There. Let’s see how much people shit on me for this post.

The Answer Is Never


Sabine Heinlein | Longreads | April 2015 | 16 minutes (3,886 words)

One time, when I was in my early twenties, I shared a hospital room with a mother of many. I had a skin infection that wouldn’t respond to oral medication, and the 50-something-year-old woman had severe, inexplicable hives. Our main topic of conversation revolved around neither of our ailments. It was about my not wanting to have children. She was insistent, which seemed ironic considering her hives flared up whenever her family visited her on Sundays. I eventually compromised with the woman. Okay, I said, I will put off my decision until I reach my thirties. “You are starry-eyed,” she huffed. “You young women want it all. But you can’t have it all!” Maybe, I thought, some of us don’t want it all.

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Dear Everyone: Here’s Why I Don’t Want To Read Your Crappy Opinions On What Other Women Should Do

The Belle Jar

Earlier today, Lydia Lovrac, a Montreal-based “columnist, talk-radio host, stay-at-home mom,” wrote a scornful response to piece from 2013 about why Sasha Emmons chooses to work outside of the home. Don’t ask me why Lovrac is responding to a two year old article, because I’m as baffled as you are. I’m sure she has her reasons, such as maybe she some type of wizard who exists outside of the linear bounds of time and space; this would explain why she is writing about the evils of mothers who work outside the home in 2015.

You guys, it’s 2015. It has been two thousand and fifteen years since the alleged birth of Christ and we are still having this goddamn argument about whether or not a mother is morally obligated to stay home with her kids, should finances permit. And as much as it’s tempting to write off Lovrac as a throw-back with outdated…

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“Feminist” underwear

So Bad Ass

I saw this post last week about ‘feminist underwear’ and was immediately intrigued.  “Feminist lingerie is the body positive underwear we’ve been waiting for” screamed the headline, now as you know I am both a proud feminist and also a big champion of women being body positive and so I clicked on the link, unsure as to what I was about to see.  Neon Moon is a kickstarter fund to create a feminist lingerie brand that does not sexualise or objectify girls.  All good so far, right?

“By taking the time to support Neon Moon’s campaign you are making a statement to the world that you want change, and your voice will be heard!” – Hayat Rachi, CEO and Founder of Neon Moon… Ok, fab, tell me more!

Using ‘real’ models these bra and knickers are supposedly promoted with an ethos of empowerment, body confidence and the non-objectification of women.  Models were asked…

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An Almost Remembrance

There are many things I can say
about what I remember.
The rough sheets.
The large, round vanity mirror across the room.
The lace-trimmed curtains
that painted the light a cold blue
to set upon the bedroom walls.
The shoddy baseboard moulding,
separating and bloated with moisture.
The air, cold and cruel and always
smelling of damp pine needles.
The sounds of city life
not quite fifty feet from the door.
The scent of green tea and sticky rice
drifting in from the neighbouring suite.

I exhale heavily and close my eyes.
I am recounting facts again.
Tonight is about peeling back
a layer of skin and revealing what’s inside:
the guts along with the glory.
But I am hesitant,
unsure of what is too much too fast.
I’m still raw and unpolished,
and I don’t really understand
what details will set people’s teeth on edge.
I take a sip of wine
and hold it in my mouth,
letting the flavour coat my
tongue and cheeks.
I’m not as tipsy as I was last time.
Maybe the subject is too sobering.

Light peeks in
through the slatted window blinds
and I realize the chance
to prolong the inevitable.
For now, time is my ally.
I twist the lid back on the bottle
and fall into feather pillows
and cream linen sheets,
and am crooned to sleep
by my fuzzy best friend.

Why Do We Seek Labels?

Beautifully written. I’d like some Tumblrettes to read this.

10 Cities/10 Years

It’s almost a daily occurrence now. On Facebook or Twitter, in an article or mind-numbing listicle, someone is discussing the traits, burdens and/or pleasures of being an introvert. Based on the unscientific sampling of my personal feed, 90% of the narcissistic self-promoters in the world are actually meek and shy introverts.

When us loners aren’t breathlessly talking about how weird it is that we prefer books to people (haha, I’m soooo crazy!), we’re posting the results of a Briggs Myers personality test (or some generic knockoff).

“I’m totally an INFP.”

“Well, I’m an ENFJ.”

“Oh, I could definitely see that. I guess that’s because I’m an ENTP.”

“I kind of figured all of you were CUNTs.”

And when we get bored with scientific classifications that mostly mean nothing, we fall back on the original sugar pill of personality labels: The Zodiac.

What’s Your Sign?

How is it that a…

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