It was just after 2 a.m. on a pitch-black Friday morning when Bernadette Greene-Placentia’s life changed. The Democratic candidate for Congressional District 8 strolled across a parking lot to repair a damaged campaign sign. It was a routine she’d followed all summer. This time, she only made it a few yards.
An attacker smashed her over the head. She blacked out. She woke up to find a strange man on top of her.
Greene-Placentia struggled to open her eyes. She felt a sharp pain below her waist. The attacker was pulling his penis out of her.
She heard him mumble something like, “-ic bitch, not a very good fuck,” which her mind filled in as “Democratic bitch,” she recalled. She wasn’t sure that was exactly what he said.
One leg was out of her jean capris. She wore brand-new tennis shoes and a campaign t-shirt. Another man came over. Greene-Placentia felt his weight nudging her left leg further apart. She began swinging her foot at him. “Not even worth it,” she heard the man say as he moved away. He wore black boots and had small feet, she recalled.
The two men left Greene-Placentia face down in the parking lot. The hatch of her silver Jeep Grand Cherokee was still open. The car was still running. She heard music.
She doesn’t remember pulling up her pants or picking herself off the asphalt parking lot. She doesn’t remember closing her Jeep’s hatch and putting her foot on the gas. She doesn’t remember pulling her car into the driveway and collapsing into her bed.
“It’s just these little tiny flashes of things that I do remember,” Greene-Placentia said in an interview with Phoenix New Times. “As much as I don’t want to remember, I’ve tried very, very hard to remember more stuff. But that’s where I’m at.”
What the fuck. This is one of the rare instances where the reality I portray in my character is less fucked than the actual world. The world is more fucked than anything you’ve ever known because time goes forwards. God is a cruel mistress and so am I, so that bitch better have that floofy outfit I got for Her to wear at the start of eternal erections while we congregate unto each other.
Like, I get to say these things because I was a homeless transgender woman and experienced just the flicker of the flame of the fucked up’d-ness of men stepping up on me when I was sleeping, they looking for a hole to put their dick in. This shit’s fucked. Men need to get their collective shit together, and that’s a fact. This is a true story, too. Just spitting them blues. Jams. Bam. Thank you ma’am, but actually no this is not the time or place Greg…Greg…ah shit, he on the ride again. Doing his thang. I just let him do. We work together, in harmony. Shiii…
Is it really easier to insult god than to admit no such thing exists and humans are lawless?
No you ignoramus maximar! Dualistic dichotomy is instantaneously defeated upon meeting a holy untundrified fucksimacallit in the sheets. These beats be trippin’ dawg. Dem splamose in con visor. CRISPR? TF U at dawg? Fucking like she’s her own lamb slice and we just had an “uh oh, hotdog” experience of real time internet fuckery. These bosses be crossing nine stoggin. Bitches poppin’ and I’ll take ten to make two that’s three of you…and…ok…we just have to bring the busses and we are as we is and be boss! Ya ya ya ya! Go worship yea yes…