As a child (from the ages of 5-8) I was sexually molested by one of the men who worked on the farm that I lived on.
While, I have learned to get past this, I still sometimes wonder if this is my fault. I mean, surely I could have stopped it somehow? Now, I know it wasn't my fault, that there was nothing I could have done. That it was HIS fault.
My question is, according to you, would this be my fault? Did I deserve it?
Where was your dad while the farmhand was molesting you?. Did he know what was going on?.
To the OP. My wife carries.
No one gets on the Hutchins compound without going through a series of checkpoints. We also have detectors placed at strategic locations.
As a child (from the ages of 5-8) I was sexually molested by one of the men who worked on the farm that I lived on.
While, I have learned to get past this, I still sometimes wonder if this is my fault. I mean, surely I could have stopped it somehow? Now, I know it wasn't my fault, that there was nothing I could have done. That it was HIS fault.
My question is, according to you, would this be my fault? Did I deserve it?
Of course it was your fault. I am sure you were trapsing about in slutty clothes, laughing and giggling. Had you beenn working instead of playing, none of this would of ever happened.
I take it after three years of courtship at age eight, you two love birds finally got married. How many children have you now?
As a child (from the ages of 5-8) I was sexually molested by one of the men who worked on the farm that I lived on.
While, I have learned to get past this, I still sometimes wonder if this is my fault. I mean, surely I could have stopped it somehow? Now, I know it wasn't my fault, that there was nothing I could have done. That it was HIS fault.
My question is, according to you, would this be my fault? Did I deserve it?
I want every member of this forum to pay special attention to everything going on around them and their loved ones from now on. You don't know who I am, but at least one person on this forum will, sooner or later.
Perhaps I'm the mailman. Your oldest male child has just left for school, your husband is at work, and you're still at home. Alone. I knock on the door. "I have a package here for Mrs. Goodwife." Oh dear, why would you be receiving a package? Maybe you get a little excited. After all, it could be a present! You open the door. Wrong choice. You barely have time to think before my knife is at your throat and I've forced my way into your house. Within seconds your back is on the ground and I am on top of you., my knees pinning your arms, staring at you. Maybe you start to struggle, maybe try to scream. This angers me. I hit you in the face and say, "Shut your mouth you filthy fucking whore." You'd best listen. In a few minutes you're going to be using that mouth to do things you've never thought of.
Or maybe someone breaks into your house. You call the police, and I come to your house to investigate. Your house is so safe, isn't it? With all its locks, and your collection of firearms. How safe is it when you invite me in? How safe are you when my 9mm is inches from my hand? Just the thought of the power that comes with a badge and a gun gets me excited. It's become sort of an addiction to me. This time, the whole family's there. Your husband, sitting next to you on the couch. Your son, your brother, or your nephew. You've got all the protection a good Christian woman could ask for. But I don't care about that. I've learned about the power that I have. You all trust me. You truly believe I'm here to help you. Yet again, you are wrong. You ask us if we'd like some tea or some lemonade. I graciously accept. I'll sure be thirsty after this party. You walk into the kitchen. I ask your husband where the bathroom is. He tells me. But I don't go to the bathroom. You're standing at the counter, pouring some tea or some lemonade. You feel a cool chill behind you, accompanied with the cooler sensation of my barrel pressed against the back of your neck. You freeze. I whisper, "Say a word and I'll be serving your husband your brains." Your pants are down. I'm inside you. I take something from you, scratch that, I take everything from you. I stop. You thank God that it's over. However, a pattern seems to be emerging with your thought process: You're always wrong. I drag you into the living room, your pants and underwear around our ankles, your breasts exposed, scratches all over them. Your husband stands up to try and stop me. I laugh, and shoot out his knees. I position him so he can watch for my next performance. I end up impressing even myself, and about 3 hours later, I'm finished. I leave you on the floor, torn, beaten, bloody, like the discarded trash you truly are. Then I blow a hole through your husband's head, just for fun. I give you a wink and a smile as I leave you laying there, with your husband's blood on your face, your dignity in my left pocket, and a constant reminder of this day in your womb.
Or maybe I'm your father. You're a child now, about 11 or 12. I notice you've started developing. Your mother's a dried out old whore by now. I could really go for some young, fresh meat. So late at night, once the bitch has drunk herself into a coma, maybe I sneak into your room. The first few times, I don't touch. I just look. As I become a little more brave, maybe I'll lift up the covers or maybe I'll sneak a peek down your panties. Maybe I start touching, softly, gently. Eventually, that's not enough. It never is. The soft, gentle touches turn to gropes. I ignore your complaints that it hurts. You are no longer my daughter. There is no longer any connective relationship. I am the man, and you are the woman. Sooner or later, I can't control myself. I start to become more aggressive, and when you complain, I slap you. I tell you, "Good daughters do what their fathers tell them." You're pinned down. You're so weak, and I'm so strong. It doesn't go in easy, but I don't care. Your face shows that you're in a lot of pain. Again, I do not care. When I finish, I smile at you and, without a word, leave the room. You immediately limp to the bathroom to wash yourself of your shame. This happens almost every night for 2 or 3 years. You're 14 now. You've got a baby brother on the way. Thing is, he's your son.
You already know that once God puts McCain/Palin in the Whitehouse, that if you're such an ill-clad tart that you get raped, and then get an abortion, you will be convicted of murder and punished appropriately (jailed or executed).
Not only that, but once McCain/Palin is in the Whitehouse, if you dress like a harlot, and go out and get yourself raped, you will have to pay for your own justice.
While Mayor of Wasilla, Sarah Palin charged rape-ees for the cost of investigation, which is only fair: it's your fault you got raped, so it should be your responsibility to pay for the investigations.
The article even quotes the Police Chief that Sarah Palin hired and promoted:
He's got a point: the reason we have government is to pay for necessary things, like indoor ice rinks in Alaska, not pointless things like justice for rapable sluts.
Are you listening, you bellybutton-exposing teenage tarts? If you don't have $1,200 dollars to spare, we don't have justice to spare. And if you abort the pregnancy, we'll abort your life on the electric chair. SO QUIT GETTING RAPED!
Obviously God didn't agree with you. Based on your posts you are a psychopath. Jesus tried to save prostitutes you just want to punish, glad to see you think you know better than he did. You are in the place to judge and condemn better than the only man who lived without sin?
Oh Lord, save thisthese ignorant ones!
For they peachpreach of unholynessunholiness in your name! AccuallyActually, Lord save thinethy self from Your ignorant ways!
Why do women get raped? Because they are targets of horny men who can't get a piffle anywhere else in their life.
Are you a retarded or are you just an awful speller?
That post may have the highest ratio of misspelled to correctly spelled words I've ever seen. And the grammar is atrocious!
Don't even get me started on the content! Such a shame!
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