The Challenge:

Write a blog post using 50 words given to me by 50 followers on my KatyKatiKate Facebook page.
A Letter to My Senator

whoooooooah little lady
this isn't gonna be about your babymaker
is it?
because i'm not
i don't
that's not

Dear Sir,

My name is Katie Anthony. 

I am a writer, a mother of two young boys, a volunteer with the community garden, and a constituent living in the township of Up Your Goddamn Ass. 

That’s right, Pookie. Get comfortable standing at meetings because I’m not going anywhere, mkay?

I was a freshman in high school 9 miles away from Columbine on April 20, 1999. I was in soccer practice when one of the other girls whose dad worked at a news station said that there had been a shooting at Columbine. At the time, it was inconceivable. I can’t decide which feeling is worse: surprised and afraid in 1999, or resigned in 2018.

I can’t decide which lede is worse: “It was the worst school shooting in U.S. history,” or “At the time, it was the worst school shooting in U.S. history.”

I took my son to his kindergarten open house last week. I stood in the cafeteria watching my son, his brother, his friends, mill around spilling Goldfish crackers on the floor as they explored the folding tables that in only a few months will become boring and normal to them. I wanted to cry.

NO, Senator, it wasn't because my baby was growing up too fast. It wasn't because I didn't know what I was going to do with all that free time when he went away to school all day in the fall (in case you were wondering, the answer is "write a lot more blog posts" and "feel shocked at how quickly 3 pm arrives because I was going to go to yoga today oh well I'll just eat this muffin and hit yoga extra hard tomorrow.")

I wanted to cry because I was looking at these children in the context of Columbine. Sandy Hook. Parkland. I was looking at these children not as future scholars, but as future victims. 

I fucking resent that. I fucking resent my inability to enjoy the bittersweet melancholy of sending my baby to school, because there's nothing in my heart right now but a hard, hard prayer. A prayer as hard as armor.

Not this place. Not these kids.

Now here's where you come in, Senator.

Unless you’re about to express profound reverence for the generation of unbelievable students that has managed to organize sapient and empathetic public statements, and flame scared old men on Twitter with the most savage of #casualburns, then sit down and take a double of your migraine meds because I’m about to learn you up.

First of all, understand that these Parkland students are the vindication of the value of life, personified. Next time you talk pro-life to me, you better be talking about pro-THIS-LIFE.

Second, remember that the Parkland students are the most recent wave, and in some ways, the most easily-consumed wave of young activists against gun violence. Think of all the students who have been fighting gun violence for decades: the young men begging for their lives whom you would dismiss as thugs, the young women marching out of class in an act of transubstantiation that turned them from human flesh into your mid-morning fucking snack. Wipe your chin, Senator. There’s a daub of carmine that I’d swear was ketchup if I didn’t know you so fucking well.

I know, it was a risk to bring up people of color while I’m posted Up Your Goddamn Ass, Senator, because I’m pretty sure that nothing’ll make you shit your pants harder than the idea of intersectionality. But hey, I’m a mom, and a woman on the internet and I’ve had to get copacetic with a steady stream of both actual and metaphorical shit.

These students -- all of them, not just the Parkland newcomers who have reignited the national debate, but all of them, and especially the students who have continued to scream into our faces while we smiled at each other and declared America post-racial -- are not sugared-up toddlers going cattywampus.

They’re not hormone-crazed brats marching to get sriracha added to the condiment bar in the cafeteria, or to make every day Waffle Day.

They’re not scamps armed with rolls of TP and a penchant for tomfoolery.

And I’m sorry to burst your moist little paranoid fever bubble, but they’re not crisis actors funded by the communist vagenda. This isn’t Emma Gonzalez’s big break.  She is not looking forward to flipping a big fat bird to Madison who plays “banjo player #3/Owl” in the Tampa Children’s Theater production of “Mr. Bojangles and the Great Kotton Kandy Kerfuffle” as she struts out of the dressing room with a guffaw: “I’m off to the SHOW bitches!”

These students are people. No, you don’t get to call them kids. Not when you’re weaponizing their age against them in an attempt to undercut their honesty. You lost the right to call them kids when you stopped treating them like kids, when you stopped seeing them as beloved children that we have a biological and moral duty to protect from harm, and started seeing them as a pain in the ass obstacle to your next payday.

These students are people, and very soon, voters. So pop a lozenge, clear your throat, and get ready to start walking back an entire career’s worth of pusillanimous time-wasting whimpers about when is the right time to talk about guns (not now) (still not now) (sorry for your loss, hold please.)

These students can hear your spinelessness, they know what you picked to prop yourself up in the absence of a God-given backbone, and I know what you picked, too. It was money.

You know, you could have made money other ways, dude.

You could have started a spiffy artisanal cotton candy shop on Etsy. That shit packs well. You could have apprenticed with the premier squeezebox tuner in the tri-state area. It’s a dying art, y’all, but the squeezebox is forever and these babies aren’t gonna tune themselves.

You could even have married the oldest sister-wife who managed to escape the compound, and then pressured her into writing a memoir that you could option to Lifetime. Even that would have been better than building your backbone out of blood-stained money, because at least then you’d only be selling one life away for your own profit.

Dangit, I’m tired.

The thing is, as an adult woman I’ve internalized my job description and generally know how to play by the rules:

  • Be gloriously beautiful, possibly even described as pulchritudinous by my creepy SAT tutor who called me it and then told me to look it up with a wink;
  • Shine bright like a diamond, but always remain slightly less luculent than you
  • Smile. Perseverate;
  • Always have a chapstick and a few stray bobby pins in my handbag;
  • Understand and cheerfully accept that my life is less important than your money. My life is less important than your personal relationship with Jesus. My life is less important than your boner.
And my life is – HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I’m sorry, it’s just so obvious that it feels like a hilarious slice of ballyhoo frosted with extra shenanigans that I’d even have to say it out loud – my life is so, so, SO much less important than your right to know in the back of your mind that you could murder me and 79 of my closest friends in less than a minute if we got too mouthy.

Evidently, I’m at the place where I’m laughing about my worthlessness. #PanicGiggles #Despairadox

I call it a despairadox (get it? Despair paradox?) because on the one hand I feel deeply moved by the ability of these students to unify, stand together, and use their votes and voices to move the needle on gun violence.

On the other hand, I feel deep despair. These are children. They could be mine, but they are somebody’s. They are standing because we didn’t, couldn’t, tried and failed to protect them. They are using their votes and voices because we didn’t, couldn’t, tried and failed to make the world safer for them.

They should not have had to be good at saving their own lives. Not yet. That was our job. 
That was your job.

But instead of saving kids’ lives (which honestly, dude, how are there two sides to that story? You do know that sometimes when you play devil’s advocate, you’re advocating for the goddamn devil, right?) you got persnickety with “what counts as a militia” with all the groping faux-logic of a traveling phrenologist, and tried to convince us that it was bad manners to talk about how to prevent tragedies that you call stochastic but which are in fact the epitome of fucking preventable.

In some ways, it’s too late for me to fight this battle for myself; I’ve already gotten used to being whoever you want me to be, being nice to avoid getting murdered. Unlearning those cheerful, safe poses will be so much fucking work. If we were talking about me, I wouldn’t be living here, Up Your Goddamn Ass, Senator.

(PS, there’s a definite gurgle and miasma of panic shits in here, which I’m going to take as a sign that we’re making progress. I remember feeling like this on November 8, 2016. That was the Tuesday that I came down with a week’s worth of the Trumps.

PPS, I’d also like to point out that “gurgle” is a super gross example of onomatopoeia.

PPPS, totally just made you say “gurgle.”)

Yep, it’s late. It’s too late for me to feel entitled to life.

It’s too late for you to feel empowered to protect it, you saggy-assed elephant hornswaggler.

But these students. These people. These inimitable young leaders, the ones who get invited to the news and the ones who don’t, remind us that the values we’ve allowed long enough to root are still impeachable. It’s not too late for them.

There have been lots of jokes about how the world is turning upside-down:

Leaders are acting like kids and the kids are acting like leaders. Up is down and down is up. Nor’easters in March and sunshine in Seattle. I had Chipotle for dinner and I feel super energized like I just wanna wear a bodycon dress and get on a trampoline. And why is it getting dark in the middle of the day?

It’s a scary time to look for normal, not least because in the act of evolution we have to fully understand the tattered, too-small skin that we’ve been wearing. We have to confess that we’ve been lying, this whole time, when we said it was all okay.

Today, right now, these times feel as rare as a total eclipse, a time when the rules of nature feel flexible and unsure. This penumbra is a terrifying reminder that everything we believe is true – that the day will be light and the night dark – is subject to change.

And if we flip that coin to the other side, then that same shadow is a miracle, a thrilling invitation that everything we believe is true – that our government is past humanity and our children can’t be saved – is subject to change.

Even you, Senator. Your station, your invitations, your spine made of money, your ass-shaped dent in this fine leather chair. They are all subject to change. You are subject to change.

That’s either a warning or an invitation. You choose.


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with Ronit Feinglass Plank

When I was at the movies the other night I saw a preview for the new movie Tully, about a mom in the 21st century and the magic woman named Tully who comes to save her. It looks like a modern Mary Poppins but for moms instead of kids.

I’ve been kicking around some screenplay ideas, and one of the things I really want to do is write some real-life women with respect and passion and weirdness and artistry.

As I sat in the theater watching a preview 
for the movie that I wanted to write, 
I thought, 
“Oh no! Someone wrote it already!”


Imagine this conversation happening between a screenwriter and a producer:

Chad: OK so we’ve got this guy, he’s a hero with a haunted past. His wife died, and he’s forced to fight for his freedom.

Producer: It’s a no from me. They already made “The Fugitive,” Chad. That story’s been told.

Chad: Oh my God, duh, yeah. I’m so stupid, you’re totally right, never mind.

That conversation would have been how Gladiator didn't get made.

Also Braveheart.

John Wick. The Road. Minority Report.

And Finding Fucking Nemo, for crying out loud.

But those conversations didn't happen because the people who write and produce those stories understand that the success of Gladiator doesn’t eat John Wick’s birthday cake – it proves that people are hungry for that flavor.

They didn’t stop making buddy cop movies after Lethal Weapon.

They didn’t stop making Transformers movies even when we begged them, please, Jesus, oh God, please stop.

And yet I looked at this movie, Tully, and my first thought was that there was only room for one of these. There’s only enough space on the shelf for one story about a woman like me, and someone else already told it. Guess I should just go home.

I'm just gonna come out and say it: 

White men are the only people who get to be 
interesting for no reason. 

Want to see the list of every movie about average dudes whose point of view is made interesting by hours of well-lit, perfectly-scored milieu, provided by the labor of hundreds of people and millions and millions of dollars?

Well I’m not going to write it because it’s seriously just all of the movies. From Anchorman to Zach and Miri Make a Porno and everything in between. 

Their stories can be carbon copies of each other, but they’re different because the men who made them believe in the value of their point of view, regardless of their plot lines.

It’s like there’s a secret formula:

Movie about a white guy does well -> This is a good kind of movie to make! I will make more of them for lots and lots of money! Everyone likes this kind of movie!

Movie about someone other than a white guy does well -> Huh! Surprise hit! Good thing we only spent 8 bucks on it. I guess those people go to the movies sometimes too! Alright, check the box, we did that kind of movie. Now we can go back to the good kind of movies to make. Call Chris and see if he’s available. I'll pay him twenty million to play an okay accountant with a meh stamp collection. 

I think I have good things to say. I think I have good ideas. I like art made by women. But I still struggle to believe that it’s my point of view that makes me interesting, and not the factual reporting of things that have happened to me. 

I still feel like I need to justify my request for your attention with some kind of novel cocktail party icebreaking factoid like, “One time I was in Union Square drinking sangria and the bomb squad came busting in and told us to move to the back of the kitchen so they could defuse a suspicious package. A strange calm washed over me as I picked up the pitcher of sangria to bring to the kitchen. I realized that I was calm because there was nothing I could do, either right or wrong, to change what was about to happen. I drank a gulp of sangria from the pitcher. Welp. Okay.”

My “Tully” would be so different from the one coming out in theaters, and Tully’s success will not eat my birthday cake, or yours. But it feels that way, and I think it feels that way because I’m used to describing movies  as either “a movie” or “a chick flick.” It’s either a regular movie, which means it’s about men but for EVERYONE, or a girl movie, which means it’s about girls and for girls only, and we're only allowed one at a time. Except on Valentine's Day. We might get two, but all the guys in those movies will be interesting for no fucking reason and all the women will be like world-renowned ethnobotanists who would feel accomplished if they could just get a man. Or a makeover.

How many movies do you see out at the same time with white male protagonists? In the summertime, ALL OF THEM. During Oscar season, ALMOST ALL OF THEM. Until lately.

But hey, let's take a closer look at the movies. Black Panther is absolutely destroying the box office right now, and media outlets are already trying to pit Black Panther against A Wrinkle in Fucking Time, as if, “which black movie will win” is a real question to ask.

As if the folks who'd see a movie starring black people only go to the movies once a year.

Did we pit Iron Man against The Chronicles of Narnia? Did we pit Transformers against Bridge to Terabithia?


But see, they’re all “movies,” not “black movies,” so it’s okay for each of those movies to be special just be-fucking-cause. Because a whole bunch of special fucking people believed that their story was something everyone would want to hear.


What the everloving fucknuts. I dare you to look at these articles and arrive at any conclusion other than, “There’s only room for one black movie here.”

So according to this “wisdom,” there is only one kind of movie that’s about me, and if someone has already told a story like mine, well, then my story has already been told. I have nothing new to say. Nothing worth the price of a ticket, at least.

So no wonder it’s hard for anyone who isn’t a white man to wrap our heads around the idea that not only are our stories worth telling, they are also worth retelling.

If these male writers and male directors and male actors and male producers stopped themselves from telling a story, just because a story like it had already been told, then we wouldn’t have ANY MOVIES.  These guys are confident (some might even posit a bit TOO confident) that you want to hear their voices, no matter who you are or what they’re talking about. No matter how many times you’ve heard this one before.

It reminds me of that meme – Lord, give me the confidence of a mediocre white man.

Lord, give us the confidence to believe that the most interesting part of the stories we tell are not the stories, but us, the storytellers, and how we tell them.


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with Ronit Feinglass Plank


You're just a nice guy looking for a little companionship. 

But are you looking for a girlfriend... or do you want a good dog? 

Take this quiz and find out!

After you give me dinner, will you whistle for me to put my head in your lap while you watch the game?

If a stranger strokes me and says, "Oh she's beautiful," will you smile proudly and say, "Thank you. Yeah, she's a real sweetheart."

Are you proud of yourself for rescuing me?

On a scale of 1-10, how into balls do you expect me to be?
  • 10 - I want an old, moist ball in my mouth at all times. The fuzzier the better.
  • 5 - I mean. Okay. For a minute. Because it's you.
  • 1 - What the fuck, absolutely not. Why? WHY.

Do you want me to do tricks for your friends?

Is your favorite thing about me the fact that I'm always happy to see you?

Are you relieved that you can kick me as hard as you want because you know I won't tell or leave?

If I I flinch or yelp, will you get worried that I might be damaged goods? Will you think about returning me? Will you be annoyed that you might have to work with me? Because this was supposed to be fun?

Do you plan to use me to prove to other people that you're a nice guy who is capable of love and commitment?

Would you consider rehoming me if I got sick and the medication was, like, unreasonable?

Do you want to be able to decide when I'm getting a little chubby? Do you want to be able to put me on a diet?

Do you want to be able to tell me when to speak? Stay? Lie down? Roll over?

How do you plan to discipline me if I growl or make a mess?
  • Call me a pain in the ass and lock me in the bedroom.
  • Swat my nose and then feel bad and rub my belly.
  • Hold my mouth open and pour Tabasco sauce into my mouth while I smell the mess I made.

Will you be pleasantly surprised to discover that I have a skill or talent that you find useful? Will you praise me for it like, "Oh hey! Look at YOU! Look at what YOU did! What a smart girl you are! Yes you are!"

Will you push me off the couch if I fart?

Do you want to make sure that I'm fixed?

When you picked me, did you want to make sure that I was well-trained enough that your life wouldn't change that much if you brought me into it?

After reading this quiz are you still not sure if you're looking for a woman or a dog?

Then the answer is JESUS H BALLS, under no circumstances should you try to engage with any woman.

And really, you probably shouldn't get a dog either.

you don't
deserve me

This is my work
If you found this post valuable
support my work through Patreon 
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I don't make a dime
100% of proceeds go to anti-sexual violence organizations

with Ronit Feinglass Plank

National Book Award-winner Sherman Alexie is the most well-known, widely-read, and widely-taught Native American author in the United States.

His memoir, You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, released in 2017, was on best book of the year lists for NPR, the LA Times, the Washington Post, BuzzFeed, and Entertainment Weekly, among others.

His YA books – The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian and Reservation Blues – are as common as The Giver on middle school reading lists, and his children’s picture book, “Thunder Boy, Junior,” has a spot on my own bookshelf at home. My boys, 3 and 5, love it because it says fart, and I love reading it to them because it’s short and it makes them giggle.

It turns out, Alexie is also one of those guys.

We, The #MeToo Sisterhood, haven’t settled on an official title for those guys yet, but we have a vote scheduled for the next meeting.

(Currently on the ballot: Monster, predator, harasser, dickbeast, fuckstick, hungry hungry dildo, power hater, womanovore, sex bully…)

also this gif

Whatever we end up calling him, he is the kind of guy who checks to make sure he has more power than you do, then feels you up and threatens to ruin your career if you tell.

We knew those guys ran for office and made multi-million-dollar movies and preached at the pulpit and administered health care to young girls. Of course those guys write children’s books, too.

Q: But should we separate the art from the artist?

A: No.

You know, I was gonna write a whole should-we-or-shouldn’t-we, but life’s short, eat dessert first, drink wine with breakfast, and answer the fucking question.

No. I can’t separate the art from the artist. Here’s why:

Did you ever have a conversation with someone you love and ask them how they could possibly vote for Donald Trump, knowning what we know about who he is and how he treats women.

Did you ever hear someone say, “I’m voting for Trump, but I don’t support his treatment of women.”

Did you ever think, “That's cute. Do you also shop at Amazon even though you don't support their destruction of local bookstores? 

Of course your vote supports him. All of him. His goal is to get your votes. 

If you vote and put an asterisk next to the vote and at the bottom of the ballot write, ‘But I don’t like the way you treat the ladies,’ like, do you think the President is going to read that note and be like, ‘Thanks, voter. Noted. I’ll put you on the list of people who voted to put me in charge of Planned Parenthood funding but don’t agree with the way I treat women. I’ll… definitely never look at that list again. Thanks for that vote though. Glad you found a way to feel good about it.’”

Did you ever want to say, “All you’re saying is that women matter less to you than everything else.”

Do you ever not say it, because you know you can’t teach someone how to give a shit. This isn’t an issue of education.

That’s the same conversation we’re having right now. Voters support politicians. Fans support artists.

Art isn’t a monologue. It doesn’t only belong to the artist. Art is a conversation that needs you to participate. The art you choose belongs to you, too.

Paintings are a conversation between the painter and the viewer. Music is a conversation between the musician and the listener.

The thing you have to know about artists, as I wrote recently, is that artists don’t create their pieces to exist on an island. Art is a poke or an extended hand, a slap in the face or a deep kiss. It exists to provoke a response from you.

Once the artist is dead and gone and the painting is still on the wall, we can have that conversation with a painting without necessarily involving the artist. That’s the easiest thing to do.

But that’s not the case with Woody Allen, Chuck Close, Chris Brown, and now, we know, Sherman Alexie. These artists are here, now, talking to you and me.

Should we listen?

We’re asking whether we should judge pieces of art by the personal failings of the artists. We’re talking about Michael Jackson again. We’re talking about Gauguin and his 13-year-old bride. Sorry, brides. There were two of them, plus the old one. Who was 14.

I don’t think the paintings should be ripped off the walls of the Met. I don’t think the books should be burned. Erasing our history is tantamount to silencing the stories of the people who suffered in the creation of that history. The models can only tell their stories through these paintings anymore, and they deserve to be heard, even if we can only hear them through the – ew – strokes of Gauguin’s brush.

But that’s the difference between Gauguin and Chuck Close; Gaugin's legacy is fixed, and the man is fucking dead. So are the kids. We can discuss his predatory manipulation of children and call it what it is without having to actually dole out any consequences. That’s the easiest thing to do.

Because of our cheerful impotence, we can shrug and hold both these ideas in our heads quite comfortably:

Gauguin is a pedophile.
Gauguin is sublime.

But Chuck Close is still very much alive, buying coffee with the money you gave him, talking dirty to young girls in the studio you paid for, and he belongs to us. Sherman Alexie is here, now. He is of our time and place. We are the people with whom he converses. We are the holders of his consequences. And we’re still holding them.

Think of it this way:

Compare the way people talk about historical Nazis to the way we talk about those Charlottesville guys.

There is a difference. It’s easy to condemn people who can’t hear you, but it’s also fucking pointless.

We are aware of our responsibility. We just don’t want to be aware. Or responsible.

When we condemn a dead artist who was both talented and shitty, we have the luxury of never having had any real power over him. We don’t have to judge ourselves for giving no fucks about the victims of an artist that we never had the chance to boycott. We never had to make that choice.

We never had to say, explicitly:

I hate what you did to those girls.
I hate it almost as much as I love how your art makes me feel.
So here is my time. Here is my money.
Here are my clicks. Here is my love.
I invite you into my life, and give you the very best chair.
I will not talk about that other stuff.
I will not learn that other stuff’s name.

It’s a whole different ballgame when the artist is present. Because our judgment will cost him. Our boycotts will hurt him. Our decision to refuse to pay the rent of known asshole predators will lead to asshole predators losing their homes and going… somewhere ordinary. With all that talent.

It feels unfair, doesn’t it? It feels mean. We’re lovers, us artsy folk. We aren’t punishers. Just ask the artists we love. Don't ask those other people, just trying to make a name for themselves.

And why should I have to be the one to punish him for what he did? I’m not on his jury. I’m just a music lover. I just like his writing.

But if you don’t hold him accountable, nobody else will.

And as much as you love that song or book, it’s not as much as the moms love the daughters he consumed, shamed, and erased.

Sorry, that was a low blow. All’s fair in love and sex bullies.

I think what you’re really asking is, “Is it okay for me to ignore an abuser’s abuse because he’s also really good at this other thing?”

I can’t answer that question for you. You know what’s okay for you. But no. For me, no. It’s not okay anymore.

I am sick of the unearned grace extended to some people and not others, in the form of excuses they expected us to make for them: “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

If he’s accused of rape they say “Nobody’s perfect, he misread the cues, he’s a great guy, really.”

But if she was raped they’ll ask her if she was drinking, if she smiled, if she wore something, if she danced.

“But I thought nobody was perfect,” she asks.

“But you are nobody, so you have to be,” they say.

I am absolutely done engaging in this conversation with someone who gets all flustered and twitterpated when you question whether “human life” versus “book” is a reasonable choice.

The fact that we're even asking ourselves this question demonstrates that we don't see women as fully human. 

They're interchangeable for a book, a poem, a song, a piece of art.  They’re commodities to be traded, pieces moved around the board by the players, not the players themselves.

When you read that poem and it moved you,
I ask myself,
How much did it move you?
Or rather, how many?

(I think we should measure catharsis in units
of women.)

How many women was that poem worth?

How many of that woman’s poems
was that one fucking poem worth?

The worst part is,
I’m trying to come up with a number.
the avenging blogger of the sisterhood.

I’m sorry.
I really loved that poem.

We still don't know the extent of the fucked uppitude surrounding Alexie, but we do know that he suppressed the careers of other Native American women writers. We do know that because of this one guy, we missed a lot of stories, a lot of voices.

I am absolutely fucking done with the idea that artists are specialer than the people whose lives they fucked up on purpose. I cannot stomach the idea of loving someone's work more than a someone.

And yes, of course it costs me something to accept that I cannot love the art without supporting the artist. Fuck, I loved that writer. Fuck, I loved that actor. Fuck, he moved me, even if all he did was make me feel proud of my own ability to be moved.

But no. 

No, not in our time, not in our place. Not until... what? Some kind of rehabilitation? That's a whole other blog post. Possibly even two.

Bottom line: Artists create art for a living. Their occupation is a choice they make, just like the choices of how they treat people. And their choice of occupation does not exempt them from following the same rules of society that the rest of us non-artists still have to follow. I expect consequences. Sherman Alexie should, too.

The difference is that fellow writers and art models don’t have an HR department to disappoint them with inaction.

Art isn’t the crown or a letter signed by the cardinal or those passes from Casablanca guaranteed to get you out no matter what. It’s a fucking job. Artists sell their art. That’s how they survive.

When you buy the art of a person whom you know is in the habit of fucking up other people’s lives, you’re paying them to continue to fuck up other people’s lives. Just like voting for Trump is a vote for sexual assault of women.

Just… you know… that’s what you’re doing. 

I’m not judging you for it. Truly. I know it's complicated. I just won’t do it anymore. And that's why.

This is my work
If you found this post valuable
support my work through Patreon 
or PayPal

Follow KatyKatiKate on Facebook & Twitter

Get an email when I post something new

I don't make a dime
100% of proceeds go to anti-sexual violence organizations

with Ronit Feinglass Plank