A few months ago, after realizing with a sharp acidic sting that rape and sexual assault aren't just newspaper fillers or misfortunes (to put it very crudely) that befall on those women that God has condemned to a terrible fate, but very real problems that loom over us all like the shadow of an invisible monster with a carnal lust for feminine flesh, I decided that it was time to take matters into my own hands.
Growing up on a steady dose of American sitcoms planted the idea of the incomparable protection offered to a woman in times of distress by pepper-spray and tasers into my mind. We would watch on TV as a pretty blonde wearing a tight red dress would get followed by some cheap scoundrels and led into a dingy alley before they would decide to pounce on her. But that was not to be, as the courageous and quick-witted blonde would draw out her faithful can of pepper-spray and shower their dirty faces with the potent oleoresin capsicum concoction, teaching them a lesson they wouldn't easily manage to forget.
I ordered (upon my father's continuous and copious reminders) my first can of pepper-spray about ninety days ago. It sits like a silent guardian in a corner of my handbag, and I assure you that while it's possible for me to leave home without my wallet, leaving behind my KnockOut Spray (yes, it has a name. Google it) is an unlikely possibility.
I don't depend on male company (however strong/ muscular or weak/ puny) to accompany me to shady places, should I choose or require to visit them. And more importantly, I refuse to allow my whereabouts to be dictated by the savage, animalistic libido of such offenders.
This is a free country, and I am a responsible adult who has taken her security into her own hands. You should try doing that too.
Growing up on a steady dose of American sitcoms planted the idea of the incomparable protection offered to a woman in times of distress by pepper-spray and tasers into my mind. We would watch on TV as a pretty blonde wearing a tight red dress would get followed by some cheap scoundrels and led into a dingy alley before they would decide to pounce on her. But that was not to be, as the courageous and quick-witted blonde would draw out her faithful can of pepper-spray and shower their dirty faces with the potent oleoresin capsicum concoction, teaching them a lesson they wouldn't easily manage to forget.
I ordered (upon my father's continuous and copious reminders) my first can of pepper-spray about ninety days ago. It sits like a silent guardian in a corner of my handbag, and I assure you that while it's possible for me to leave home without my wallet, leaving behind my KnockOut Spray (yes, it has a name. Google it) is an unlikely possibility.
I don't depend on male company (however strong/ muscular or weak/ puny) to accompany me to shady places, should I choose or require to visit them. And more importantly, I refuse to allow my whereabouts to be dictated by the savage, animalistic libido of such offenders.
This is a free country, and I am a responsible adult who has taken her security into her own hands. You should try doing that too.
No comments:
Post a Comment