Testing, Testing

Imagine this: hundreds of blood tests sitting in a lab, untested; the lab is closed, backed up, whatever excuse. People are waiting for their results, for their horrible, unspeakable diseases.

Now imagine Brock Turner. Do you remember him? I do. But I don't remember him like Chanel Miller does. Under her dress, inside of her body.

I wasn't talking about blood tests before. I was talking about rape kits. Hundreds sit, getting moldy, not being tested.

Chanel Miller writes, in her memoir "Know My Name", that on the campus in Philadelphia where she lived with her boyfriend, it was reported that 1 in 4 women are sexually assaulted in their lifetime.

Read that again. What did you feel? Are you continuing to scroll, not really invested in this?

Here's the beginning of my fantasy.

Women are respected. Their bodies are not something to comment on, to touch without consent.

Women do not go through years of trial to convict their rapists.

Women are not asked, why were you wearing that? Why were you alone? How many drinks did you have?

Women are not afraid to walk alone after dark.

Women are not blamed for their sexual assault.

In my fantasy, rape does not exist. It is repulsive, like stabbing someone and running. Like leaving hundreds of blood tests untouched.

Women are treated as equals to men.