A commercial break.

To all the smug, self-righteous people (okay, mostly white boys) in the Fall 2007 Journals, Letters & Marginalia class who told me not to use the word RAPE in the piece I workshopped:

RAPE.

And by the way, RAPE.

What makes you so afraid of that word that you're willing to gang up on a 210-pound, frumpy girl and make her cry in of everyone?  Then you tell her that her writing's too simple and informal, that it's not intelligent or ironic enough for your tastes? That you'll piggyback off of each others' comments to help drive the point home?  And please, please, the elephant in the room is apparent.  There's no need to use that word, really.  Just don't, for Chrissake, use the word RAPE.

You so-called liberal, middle-class white boys who buy fair trade products and voted for Obama, but get your Banana Republic boxers in a twist because of one little word in my story?  Your stupid asses make me wanna do jumping jacks while chanting RAPE over and over. 

Why were you boys so scared of that word?  You're good guys, really. Nice guys. Sensitive. Intelligent.  Literary.  Is it because you don't wanna acknowledge that you're capable of such a heinous thing, and would rather brush it under the rug?  Or is it because you didn't want to see the fat, ugly girl as evidence before your eyes?

This was my first true experience with censorship in a writing class at a fancy, big-name institution that prides itself on being open-minded.

And by the way, RAPE.  With whipped creams and chocolate sprinkles and strawberries. 

P.S. RAPE.

Jesus Christ, that felt so fucking good.