For weeks I have been hearing this weird sound. A kind of granular dragging shaking sound. It passes by the apartment at the speed of a slow car or someone on foot. I've been unable to identify a source. It's not the local club kids, it's not the bolt bus, it's not the guy with the wheelchair, or even any one particular cab. I've been looking and it's been eluding me. One night last week this same scratchy, shaking noise kept coming and going intermittently in conjunction with an unusual number of people noisily entering and exiting our building and some muffled yelling, keeping me awake and puzzled until well past 3am. (And, okay, kind of scared, because we don't live in the best neighborhood and WTF, noise?) I thought it might be the roadwork, but then remembered I'd heard the same sound before that started.

It just started again a minute ago and I looked out the window and finally I know.

It's a guy with maracas.

Two practical hours into being unemployed I have eaten a healthy breakfast, downloaded a word processor for our main computer, and turned down an interview.

It's hard to believe we've gone months without a proper wordprocessing software, but we have one on the tiny computer, so it hasn't seemed vital. Sigh, we are lazy users. I got OpenOffice. It has the advantage of being free and well-reviewed.

The interview was in Bel Air north, which is not a place I can get to unassisted. Ugh. Hopefully I can figure something out and reschedule. I don't know if I want the job, but there's no way to find out without interviewing.

*sigh* I don't know that I really want a car, but it's obnoxious not being able to drive at all. MVA is on the list for this week, not that it'll help in the short term. Learner's permit #8, here I come. *sigh*

In news that isn't bad, I went back to derby for real monday night. ( Derby eats my life again. )

( And Tyler's life, apparently. )

1. While that kind of news is an ugly reminder, it doesn’t actually change much. It’s news because it doesn’t happen very often. I continue to believe living in the city is scarier than it is dangerous. I am cautious in all the ways that are reasonable: I follow all the rules, I carry my phone and pepper spray, I lock my doors, I wear sensible shoes, etc. I’m as safe as a girl can be. Which is pretty safe, really.

2. I flipped out on a guy as I walked home yesterday. He asked me to slow down so he could talk to me; I ignored him and walked faster. He started yelling at me to slow down, so I turned around and yelled back. He turned out to be homeless and pretty retarded and I felt a little bad having yelled at him. He really did just want to tell me I was pretty. The fact that he followed me another block trying to get me to accept his apology alleviated some of the guilt. Jackass.

If you think that kind of encounter is unusual and scary, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s part of my daily life. Calling the police is a laughable idea. I’m an attractive female pedestrian, and a certain amount of harassment is part of that package. It’s usually benign, not more than an annoyance, but it is an every day reality. That’s the world we live in. I don't want to be a drama queen about it, but sometimes I am truly surprised by how people react to something I’ve come to expect.

3. Charm City Roller Girls are responding to the story by setting up a self-defense workshop for rollergirls, and possibly some kind of discount for ongoing self defense classes. It’s still in the works, but if it can be extended to friends and family, I will let everyone know. I love derby people.

I was going to write about fitness goals and how I haven't been as good about them as I'd hoped, but I just read this headline: Police looking for suspect in string of rapes over a map of my neighborhood. Hey look, two of the dots basically overlap on my apartment.

I am so angry right now. I hate this shit. I hate that those things would happen to anyone, that there's really no form of redress. Selfishly, I hate what this does to me. I hate that this news has changed my day and my week and my life. I hate feeling this powerless. I get to go home and be afraid in my own apartment and even more terrified to leave it. I hate that there's very little I can do about that. I hate that it's the smart thing to be afraid. I hate that I already was unsettled and constantly aware of my vunerability. I hate that I double and triple check my locks before I can sleep. I hate knowing the pepper spray I carry everywhere with me would probably only buy me a little time to run if I needed it.

It sickens me how relieved I am when Tyler comes home some nights. That being myself and alone is basically unsafe behavior.

It's two seperate strings of rapes, too, for those of you who aren't reading the article. It's one string of break-ins followed by rapes and an apparently unrelated series of bus stop rapes. Police spokesman says "We're stressing that people need to be aware of their surroundings, lock their homes and windows, and be mindful when approaching dimly lit areas." Okay, I'll try to be mindful. Thanks for that.

Yesterday I walked past my apartment because I didn't want the man who had slowed his car down to drive alongside me while he asked for my number to know where I lived. Last week I got on a bus that takes longer to get to work rather than continue to stand next to the large man making eating noises at me at the bus stop. I call Tyler and have him check out guys who appear to be doing repair work on our apartment, before I go inside, because you just never know. More days than not I smile and flirt with men who say disgusting things, because I don't want to find out how angry they'll get if I tell them to piss off.

Days go by when I am not forced to consider the possibility that I might in the next few minutes have to defend myself from sexual assault. There are days when rape is a headline, a distant thing that happens to other people, and days when I don't think about it at all. Lots of those days, when you add them together, I suppose, but not nearly, nearly enough of them to constitute actual peace of mind.

I am too angry to be entirely eloquent or coherent. I hate this shit.