A Picture of Personal Responsibility

When I wake up, I put on my burka (I dress responsibly, and you should, too), grab a bite to eat (zero fat for my anti-rape, pro-anorexia diet), and drive to work. There are no parking spaces near the door. Shiiyit. 10% of rapes happen in parking garages so I phone my boss to ask her to meet me at the car. She’s not in. The marketing manager is, but since 90% of rapes are committed by someone you know, I call the HR manager to accompany the dude who’s accompanying me to the door.  I’m nothing if not sensible.

They gave me my own office a month back, but working in a room alone can get you raped, so I go to my cubicle and begin my workday. A few coworkers are going out for drinks after work, but personal responsibility requires me to be a teetotaller. One doesn’t simply go out after sunset in South Africa, either, so I intend on spending every night this week with the cat. She’s sick to death of me because she doesn’t believe in personal responsibility, but she really needs to change, so fuck her with a dusty hairball.

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I used to love running after work, but now that I’ve learned personal responsibility, I usually just grab some celery and go online instead. I suppose I’d have a more interesting life if I tried online dating, but going out with strangers from the internet is a one-way-ticket to RapeVille. Responsible women don’t go on dates with people they haven’t met yet. I really wish we had a sex offenders registry over here because then I could background check my dates and actually get to have a real sex life. It’s not going to happen, though, so guess I’ll just stay single.

I decide to read rape stats for the rest of the night, but then I discover that one in three violent crimes happen in the victim’s home. I can’t go out. I can’t stay in. I can’t drive. I can’t run. I can’t socialise, so I decide to get a dog and a gun tomorrow and spend the rest of the night watching a YouTube video about self-defence. While I’m practising my terrifying death stare, I get a call from my ex, who wants to meet. Most domestic assaults happen after you break up, and you know what that means.

The next day, my boss tells me they want to pay me to go back to university. Massive opportunity, I know, but 0.4 million more crimes occur at school than away from school. Studying would just be inviting assault. Last night, I read that 18% of violent crime happens in the workplace, so now I don’t. Even. Know.

My life has become pretty empty since I learned personal responsibility, but anything’s better than living in fear.

Right?

I mean, if I get raped, at least I can say I never drank, did drugs, or wore anything sexy, which is good, so I’ll just find a trustworthy GP to write up some antidepressants for this godawful anxiety. Do antidepressants correlate to higher incidents of rape?

Stats taken from The Bureau of Labor and Statistics.

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