She did NOT!
This little reveal, which I, for one, have never revealed, even though I have known about it for a very long time, has to be the absolute, most disgusting thing Julia Allison, of the “I Changed My Name To Protect The Privacy of My Family” Allison’s, has ever done.
@excite_enliven – I’m not qualified to speak about the revolution in Egypt. But I can speak about violence against women. It’s disgusting.
@CaitStahle – what an ignorant, selfish, horrendous thing to say. My mother was raped outside our apt when I was 8. I was inside.
It’s peculiar that she defends herself by revealing an incredibly private story about her mother to over 20,000 Twitter followers, when, if Georgetown intel is to be believed, Julia Allison was known as the donkey whore who cried date rape in college when an assignment was late. Why not just mention that personal information instead of the story about Robin, if it is true (which it is not)? And since it’s not, considering that her mother is a victim of sexual violence, it makes Julia Allison even more heinous when she pulls the rape card as an excuse for being a lazy entitled twat. Just as heinous is the fact that she revealed this information on a hugely public forum and then immediately proceeds to post 10,037,3974,495,038,958 pictures of her wearing her “Reno Hooker Goes to the Fire and Ice Ball” garb.
I can go on and on with a patented JP tirade, but I really don’t think I could stop. Instead, to confine my immense rage, the next time I see a kitten, I’m going to punch it in the nuts.
Look what you made me do, Julia. LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!
UPDATE: Ok, after having now read through all the comments on this matter: Fuck it. I’m going to do this.
I haven’t paid attention to Julia since this morning, when I was mesmerized by her “Minnie Mouse Standing On The Street Corner Because She Needs Some Meth Money” footwear, so it is quite an unfortunate coincidence that, today in therapy, I did something that I rarely ever do.
I openly discussed my own rape.
When I was twelve-years-old, I was gang raped by a group young men. Even though I can still feel, still hear, still see and smell every single detail of my assault, when I think about that night — which is not often — the only words I am capable of using to describe that sadistic experience are “violent” and “traumatic” and “life-altering,” three heavy words that seem flimsy and weightless relative to the gravity of the experience.
I accepted that sexual violence is part of my story; those soiled, grimy pages were forcibly inserted into my narrative. I was so young when it happened and incapable of fully understanding what was done to me that it took nearly ten years to acknowledge my rape, ten years to sincerely recognize that this savage act was committed against me, ten years to accept that no amount of denial could eradicate that darkness from my memory and that I had to concede my role as a victim so that I could consciously make the decision that this was not a role I was going to play.
It happened. I was raped. And for most of my adult life I adopted and “it is what it is” attitude about my assault. That was my survival tactic. It wasn’t healthy to try to forget that this had happened to me, but it wasn’t healthy to continually reflect on that night to the point of exhaustion.
And now hear I am, 18 years after my childhood was eviscerated, and only now am I recognizing that my rape is not just a part of my story. It is undeniably the most significant part. Those excruciatingly interminable minutes make up the most defining moment of my life. Its residual echoes reverberate in almost every facet of my existence.
My rape destroyed me. It obliterated my faith in God. It irreparably damaged my relationship with my parents. It handicapped my ability to love and inhibited my ability to nurture emotional connections with others. It forced me to unconsciously seek out inequitable romantic relationships. It shattered my ability to recognize that sex is a form of emotional expression. And I cannot even begin to convey to you how enormously difficult it was for me to come to terms with my sexual identity when my first homosexual experience was a violent and brutal act, how disgusted I was with myself because I couldn’t control my natural attractions, how debilitating depression consumed me for years because I had to be damaged and something had to be seriously wrong with me. How could I have these uncontrollable and physically painful sexual desires for men when it was men who threw me against a wall and violently stole my virginity and my innocence.
And as horrific as my rape was, the trauma of that experience was compounded when I confided in what I thought was a close friend when I went to school the following year and told him what happened to me, only to walk into the schoolyard the next day and be welcomed by the glares and gossipy whispers and mocking laughter of the entire student body. The story had spread across campus in a matter of 24 hours. Its original details were mutated and disfigured until the rumors morphed into something where shock value infected the truth and where I was described, no longer as a victim, but as someone who wanted, begged to be assaulted and as a faggot who liked it.
The story of my rape was used against me, and my identity was tied to fantastically unbelievable and cruel rumors until the day I graduated high school. Everyday, just sitting in a classroom was a mortifying and paralyzing experience. At 13, THIRTEEN, I felt the only way to escape the daily ridicule was to wrap my lips around the barrel of my brother’s gun. And I sat there for hours, trying to convince myself to pull the trigger.
So Julia, darling Julia, DON’T FUCKING TALK TO ME ABOUT BULLYING.
Why, WHY, would Julia Allison publicly broadcast a deeply personal experience that is not her own via such an incredibly public forum, especially when she has spent the the past two months casting herself as a cyberbully victim? Why would she casually throw this fodder into a digital basement populated by what she truly believes to be a cabal of ravaging cat ladies whose driving mission in life is to destroy her? Why claim that protecting her family’s privacy is her utmost priority when she is going to reveal such an intimate matter — one that is her mother’s and not her own — to an online audience that includes a few dozen impressionable dumb bitches, thousands of “haters” and the entire nation of Uzbekistan?
ALL TO SHAME ON YOU, MELISSA SUE SOME RANDOM INTERNET STRANGER?!?!?!?!?!?!
Seriously, Julia, fuck you for using your “My Mother Was Raped” card to win a fucking internet argument. And fuck you for attempting to co-opt your mother’s experience as your own. Why, WHY, would anyone do that? Who willingly wants to be, even tangentially, a victim of sexual violence? (And while I won’t deny that her mother’s experience may have had some profound effect on Julia’s childhood, Donks can never truly understand what her mother went through, or how that experience can haunt her mother for the rest of her life.)
And why, Julia, is your mother’s (again not your own) experience a qualifying prerequisite for you to claim that rape is bad? Guess what? ALL SANE PEOPLE KNOW THAT RAPE IS HORRIBLE SO YOU CAN TAKE THE “SOLE AUTHORITY ON RAPE” TITLE OFF YOUR ALREADY FABRICATED BIO, YOU STUPID PUTTY-FACED BINT! And how can you be a self-anointed “rape expert” and crown yourself with Jordan’s stolen tiara and completely ignore the fact that men can be victims of sexual violence as well?
And why is rape even the qualifier for you to finally, FINALLY acknowledge an international story that has been dominating the news cycle for weeks? God damn it! Seriously, FUCK YOU! Why don’t you acknowledge that there are more important things going on in the world instead of your ego-feeding photo shoots and narcissistic birthday extravaganzas and fucking read a newspaper or listen to NPR or read somebody else’s Twitter feed instead of spending time posting irrefutable evidence of your heinous fashion sense and humblebragging that a senator’s son’s cock felt the inside of your musty ladycave? Considering that you dusted off your box of crayons to update your resume to claim that you are now a social media expert, shouldn’t you have been braying endlessly about how Twitter is changing the world and emboldening democracy among oppressed populations across the globe? Isn’t that a more interesting topic for a column instead of railing against TYPING IN ALL CAPS?!?!?!?!?!
And speaking of being a social media expert: WHY THE FUCK DO YOU NEED NOT ONE, BUT TWO (!) INTERNS FOR YOUR COLUMN? WHY DO YOU NEED ANY? WHY DO YOU HAVE SOMEONE ELSE MANAGING YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA PRESENCE FOR YOUR COLUMN WHERE YOU CLAIM TO BE AN EXPERT ON SOCIAL MEDIA? Did all that Botox and Restylane dissolve your cupcake brain? Do you not realize that your new employers may reach the conclusion that even though they hired you to write stupid, stupid shit, you may not be writing this shit at all? How can your column’s readers, who have yet to realize what a stupid, fucking lazy twat you are, trust your purported expertise when you don’t even coordinate your column’s social media efforts on your own? Then again, how can they trust your expertise WHEN YOU GO BATSHIT INSANE ON TWITTER AND RELEASE IMMENSELY PERSONAL DETAILS ABOUT YOUR FAMILY?
And why reveal that on Twitter? Rape is not a topic that can be limited to the confines of 140 characters. Writing about rape on Twitter makes you look like an uninformed and gigantically stupid asshole who is only looking for pity. Then again, even if you wrote an ENTIRE BOOK on sexual violence (hahahahahahahahaha), you would STILL look like an asshole.
BECAUSE YOU ARE A GOD DAMN FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!
Seriously, FUCK! YOU!