This was an exercise suggested to me by my psychologist. She asked me to write down what my high school years were like, how it made me feel. Once I started writing it, I kind of freaked myself out a little with the intensity of how I felt back then - and with how much of an effect it has on how I feel now.

Today I’ll have the courage to do it.

I told myself that every day, when was being called every cruel and horrible name teenage kids can think of – and believe me, there are a lot. I told myself that every afternoon, when my mum told me that sticks and stones can break my bones but names will never hurt me.

It’s the part about names never hurting me that was the worst.

It told me that she didn’t understand. It told me that she never would. It told me that she doesn’t know what it’s like to have no friends, no self-esteem, no dignity, no way out. It told me that she didn’t know what it’s like to start believing everything they shout at you.

Smelly Shelly.

Big Belly Shelly.

Pork Belly Shelly.

Tell your teachers, my dad said. Then they’ll get in trouble. Then they’ll leave you alone. I tried that once. They got detention. It got worse for me.

Fat slag.

Ugly hag.

Stupid scrag.

Even now, well into my thirties, those names follow me everywhere I go. They whisper in my ear as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. They scream at me when I try to pull on a pair of too-tight jeans. They tell me I’m not good enough, not strong enough, not pretty enough, and not thin enough.

Don’t tell me that names don’t hurt, while I’m standing in front of you crying out in pain. Names hurt more deeply and more permanently than any broken bones, and they leave wounds so deep and vicious that some might never heal.

I wanted to leave the world that was designed for those who fit a certain specification, and seemed to hate people like me: The square peg that wouldn’t - couldn’t - be shoved into a round hole. At the time that pain and that misery was my whole universe. I knew nothing else, and told myself every day that one day I’d have the courage to do it, I’d take the pills I’d use the knife I’d submerge myself in the bathtub and just….let go.

I wanted to scream but I had no voice. I wanted to cry but I had no tears. My emptiness was, in the end, my salvation. Show nothing. Feel nothing. Give them nothing.

I couldn’t swim and I was drowning.

I couldn’t breathe and I was suffocating.

I was dying and I didn’t know how to save myself.

I’ve been reading a lot lately, from Twitter and various other sources, about some pretty horrific experiences women have had with over-zealous men in public.

So I thought maybe it was time for me to tell mine.

I was sitting outside the local library on a bench, alone, books in hand as I waited for my mother to finish shopping. A middle aged man walked past and suddenly smiled at me, a cocky and confident smile that he obviously thought was appealing and was anything but.

He slowed as he neared me, and eyed me up and down like a potential prize cow, and finally asked his all-important question: “Hey, how’re you doing?”

I smiled politely but said nothing, not wanting to appear rude but not wanting to engage in conversation either. I was just hoping he’d be satisfied with general acknowledgement and move along. Alas, it wasn’t to be.

“You got some books there? What’ve you been reading?”

What made it even more awkward was that a woman who looked like she might be his mother was standing right next to him. She was looking back and forth between us, not helping but not hindering, just letting her son ‘work his magic’. I flicked my gaze over towards the shopping centre as I still smiled politely, hoping for my mother to suddenly appear like an oasis in a desert.

Dissatisfied with my lack of enthusiasm, the man’s whole demeanour changed. The cocky and confident smile fell away and was replaced instead by a scowl. The awkward pick-up lines were instead replaced with: “What’s your fucking problem, you bitch? You too good to talk to me?”

This was my first encounter of this kind, ever, and quite frankly I was just taken aback by how quickly his attitude had changed. I probably should have put a stop to him at this point, stood up, told him to get the fuck over himself, and walked away. But somehow I was frozen to the spot.

“You’re ugly, aren’t you?” He continued on. “You’re a fat ugly cunt anyway, who’d want you? Hey? Too fucking good to talk to me, you dumb ugly slut.”

His mother, by this stage, had started tugging on his arm to try and get him to move away. She didn’t seem as shocked as I was, but maybe she was used to this. Maybe this was part of their daily shopping ritual. She just seemed annoyed that his abuse of a complete stranger was holding them up.

For my part, I didn’t understand what the Hell was going on. I’d just wanted to sit quietly by myself, maybe read one of my library books, and wait for my mother to finish shopping. Instead I was being asked to engage in conversation with this complete stranger, and being viciously abused because I really didn’t want to.

“Look at you, just sitting there with your fucking books. You’re a smart-mouth bitch I bet. Too fucking smart for your own good. Yeah. No shutting you up and putting your mouth to better use, you dumb cunt.” He continued.

I’ve always thought of myself as stubborn, spirited, and direct. I don’t take crap from people and I always, always say what I’m thinking. But somehow, all of that was taken away in an instant, and I was left sitting with the polite smile frozen on my face and actually thinking: ‘If I sit here and let him get it out of his system, he’ll go away and leave me alone’. To this day, I still don’t understand how that thought process came to be.

Until that moment in my life, I’m ashamed to say that when it came to abused women I’d always thought: ‘So why don’t they just leave? What’s the problem? Why do they put up with that?’. Suddenly I understood. I knew that their thought process when faced with an abusive situation was the same as mine when I was faced with this pathetic middle-aged shouting man.

If I let him get it out of his system, then he’ll leave me alone.

Even more astonishingly, I was letting this asshole get to me. Yes, I was actually starting to feel hurt as he flung at me every negative thought I’d ever had, and that I’m sure most women have had in their life: the thought that they’re fat and unattractive. I’m embarrassed to say that there may have even been a tear in my eye, and that still, still, I was doing absolutely nothing to defend myself.

Eventually this man got tired of calling me every disgusting, derogatory term under the sun and let his mother drag him away.

I still wonder what his reaction would be if he’d been sitting on a bench, quietly waiting for someone, and a gay man had wandered up to him and tried to engage him in conversation. I wonder whether he would find it acceptable to then be subjected to a barrage of abuse just because he’d committed the heinous crime of not being interested.

What was the correct response in this situation, the response that would have kept him happy? Was I supposed to affect interest? Fall backwards off the bench for him with my legs spread just because he’d said hello? Force myself to interact with someone who quite frankly I had no interesting in interacting with?

We all have rights. He has the right to try and engage in conversation with people if he wants to. And I have the right to choose not to engage in conversation if I don’t want to. Clearly he was expecting a different response, a more positive one, and took it pretty personally when I just didn’t want to talk.

I can’t believe that these are things that need to be spelled out, but just for the record, for all of men out there with an urge to shout at a complete stranger, here’s a list of what I’m allowed to do:

1.     I’m allowed to sit quietly on a bench.

2.     I’m allowed to not want to talk to you.

3.     I’m allowed to politely rebuff your advances.

4.     I’m allowed to not want my personal space invaded.

5.     I’m allowed, if you don’t take a hint, to give an even broader hint that I’m just not interested.

6.     I’m allowed to expect to not be verbally abused just for the apparently unforgivable crime of not wanting to talk to a total stranger.

7.     I’m allowed to expect to not be verbally abused full stop.

8.     I’m allowed to read a book without being accused of being too smart for my own good.

I hope that clears things up.

Geek Mecca

The madness, insanity, crowds, spending, and aching feet are all a thing of the past now. But this is no time for rest and recuperation – I plan on hitting SDCC 2013, and I’ll need to stay in shape.

What follows is my fun and easy exercise regime for anyone planning to attend next year’s Comic Con. After all – preparation is everything, and if you following this routine you’ll be in excellent shape for SDCC 2013 in no time.

1.       Stand in lines for everything. Using the bathroom, getting into your kitchen, opening your refrigerator – always find another member of your household to stand in front of you. Both of you need to shuffle forward about a quarter of an inch every five to ten minutes. Do this for approximately two hours every day.

2.       Pop about ten house bricks into a bag, and sling said bag over your shoulder. Carry this everywhere – especially when you’re standing in line as part of the first exercise. Do this for approximately four to five hours every day.

3.       About five minutes before your favourite tv show is about to start – get up and walk around the block twice. This will give you an idea of what it’s like when you have two panels back-to-back at the opposite ends of the convention centre. Then, when you return, have a member of your household standing there with a clipboard, peering inside to determine if there’s enough room for you.

4.       Get rid of all furniture in your home and office. No chairs, no beds, nothing. Instead sit against a wall, and use a sleeping bag whenever you want to nap.

5.       The art of ducking and weaving is very important at SDCC, so find yourself a group of people at a shopping centre, at a party, or just in the street, and weave in and out of them. This will develop excellent reflexes in time for SDCC 2013.

6.       No more 8 hours a night for you – go to bed after midnight and get up at approximately 6am. Sleep is for the weak, and those who don’t want to get into the more popular 10am panels.

In conclusion, SDCC is fun. Insane, exhausting, overwhelming, but the one place where I can just geek out and be me. And I can’t wait to do the same next year. SDCC 2013 – woo hoo!!! Now all I have to do is shake the impulse to walk up to random groups of people and ask them: “What’s this the line for?”

Today I went to one of the best panels I’ve been to yet at Comic Con – a tribute to Ray Bradbury. It was a very moving and appropriate tribute to an extremely talented and influential writer. Only one thing marred the experience for me.

The panel preceding it.

I’m a first time Comic Con attendee, and maybe that doesn’t entitle me to an opinion. But I’m going to give one anyway, so here goes:

Some of the panels at SDCC have no place being there.

Sure, a TV show may be popular, but when it has nothing to do with comics, or sci-fi, or fantasy, you have to ask yourself how much of a place it really has at SDCC. The particular panel in question was filled with an audience that screamed and hollered at any given opportunity. Just a mention of a panelists’ name and it would set them off, like a flock of demented banshee.

And as I looked around the room, I honestly had to ask myself how many of the people in that room were even interested in anything other than that irrelevant tv show. Whether they’d ever picked up anything comicy or sci-fi-ish. Whether their view of geek culture extended beyond that one panel that had fuck-all to do with geek culture.

As I said, I’m a first timer. So maybe I’m not entitled to an opinion at all. Maybe I just need to stand up, shut up, and walk away from the computer.

Then again, maybe I’m not the only one who feels that a panel about a completely unrelated tv show has no place at Comic Con.

Maybe I’m not the only one who thinks that tv show panels have become ridiculously out of control and over-rated.

Maybe I’m not the only one who thinks that if it has nothing to do with geek culture, they should keep it the fuck out of the program.

JM Straczynski - Relevant

These guys - WTF

I don’t have a lesson to impart today, boys and girls. Just a simple observation – it’s called Comic Con for a reason.

Every day I’m at SDCC things seem to be a little bit easier. I’m weaving my way from one panel to the next with the ease of a professional. I’m learning which panels I’ll need to line up for and which ones I can just slide on into as they’re starting. I’m learning not to plan two panels back to back at opposite ends of the hall.

But today’s lessons, boys and girls, are all about that elusive, exciting SDCC prize – the autograph. Read and learn, children.

Lesson 1: If you’re looking for the autograph of someone popular, leave plenty of time to line up before the autograph session begins. You may have to sacrifice a panel, but if the autograph means more to you then so be it. Be prepared to line up for at least one hour prior to the autograph session commencing, keeping in mind that the writer/artist of your choice only has an hour to make nice and sign everyone’s crap. Being as near to the front of the queue as you can manage is always advantageous. I learned that lesson the hard way today with Joe Hill.

Lesson 2: If you’re looking for the autograph of someone really, REALLY popular and it’s in the Sails area – go there first thing to check if it’s a ticketed signing. The last thing you want is to rock up to the 3pm signing of Jo Famous, only to find out that it’s a ticketed signing and they’d run out of tickets at 10am.

Lesson 3: No matter how much you might rehearse things while you’re standing in line, no matter how cool and erudite you sound in your head as you edge ever closer to your icon, if you’re anything like a certain geekifiedgirl, it will all be for naught. The moment you’re expected to actually interact with the coolest writer/artist/actor/actress you’ve ever known, every ability to verbalise well-constructed sentences will exit your brain. Instead your brain will throw at you every useless banality, every cliché, and every inappropriate reply until you’re lucky if you’re able to remember your own name. This will happen. The sooner your resign yourself to that, the better.

JH Williams III, just prior to being subjected to my geekout

Lesson 4: So you’ve made your way to the DC booth or IDW booth or wherever the autographer is going to be. You’ve got your comics to be signed, you’ve left plenty of time to get it done, you’re as prepared as you could ever be. Except that the last guy in the line is holding a sign that says: “I am the last in the line”, meaning that someone with more power than you has decided that this is the cutoff point. Your first reaction will probably be to collapse on the floor in the middle of aisle 5200 and weep uncontrollably while people weave their way around – or possibly walk over the top of - your balled-up form. DON’T DESPAIR. Pop on the end of that line, and hold on to hope. If the line ends up moving quicker than expected, you’ll still get the opportunity to geek out embarrassingly in front of your icon and hopefully get that autograph you’re craving.

So there we have it. More little gems to take away with you, in case you ever find yourself at SDCC. The main thing to bear in mind is that when it comes to autographs, patience is everything. You might only have one thing to get signed, but the guy in front of you might have ten comics to get signed plus a witticism he’d like to share with the artist/writer/actor/actress. Just remember – violence never solves anything. Unless it gets the line moving faster. In which case – by all means go for it.

I had it all planned out. So perfectly, so harmoniously, so completely. Every second of my day was filled, every minute of my day had purpose, and every hour of my day was spoken for.

Then reality hit.

For anyone who hasn’t been to Comic Con before, let me give you a couple of little tips that I picked up early on in the day. And just remember - even if you have everything planned out, it can all still go to crap.

Lesson 1: If you have a panel you want to go to that you think may be even a little bit popular, don’t plan to go to anything just before it. And especially don’t do what some silly geekifiedgirl did, and go to a panel waaaaaay across the other side of the convention centre just before it. Trust me – that way only ends in tears.

Lesson 2: If you’re going to be bold and ask for an autograph from your favourite writer/artist/janitor/volunteer at the end of a panel, don’t be hesitant. Don’t sit in your seat wondering and debating and considering the pros and cons – get up, walk over, and ASK. Preferably before they’ve packed up their stuff and hurried off to the next panel.

Lesson 3: If you think the panel you want to go into may be popular, slip into the one just before then stay in the room for the one you actually want to see. You never know – the one before may prove to be interesting after all. And that way you’re guaranteed a seat for the panel you want. If you’re feeling particularly brave, you can even scurry forward a few rows when the room empties out in between.

Lesson 4: If Kate Beaton asks you what your favourite comic is, don’t say “Spider-man”, or “Superman”, or “Batman”. What she actually means is out of the comics that she draws and writes what is your favourite. Interpreting that question any other way will leave you feeling a little silly. Although she does draw a cute Spider-man.

Kate Beaton wondering why I’m even mentioning Spider-Man

Lesson 5: If you’ve gone to preview night, you’ll have a pretty good idea by now of the layout of the Exhibitors Hall. Therefore, it’s feasible to duck downstairs if you have an hour or so between panels, and you’ll have a reasonably good idea of where you’re heading in order to check things out. It may be a better opportunity to visit some of the vendors you didn’t get around to seeing on preview night. And believe me – there’ll be plenty of those.

So, that’s what I’ve learned from the first full day of Comic-Conning, boys and girls. Take my teachings and heed them well, and you could potentially save yourself the same bloodshed and tears in future Cons.

Preview Night, I’d been assured, was all about the exclusives. Just be prepared, I was told. Know what you want and where to find it. Then I was told that nothing would prepare me for SDCC Preview Night, leaving me to wonder how I could be prepared for something that nothing would prepare me for.

We got to the convention centre just after 3pm. The thought process was that we could then just pick up our badges and go straight in, without having to wait in a line.

Sure enough we were ushered straight inside, like celebrities at a night club. We got to the top of the first set of escalators and made our way through the velvet roped area, being assured by a too-cheerful woman that “You’re almost there! That’s the way! Keep going! Are you excited?”

She would have made a great match for the flight attendant from the first day.

After our IDs were matched with our barcodes we were issued with the geek equivalent of a golden ticket, which we displayed proudly around our necks. I had arranged to meet a twitter acquaintance, @ryeguy695, a task which I was worried would become impossible. I envisioned a mobile phone version of the game Marco Polo.

“Where are you?”

“Just ahead of you.”

“I can’t see you.”

“I’m waving my arms.”

“I still can’t see you.”

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

It proved to be not as difficult as all that, thanks to the names printed on the front of our badges. After a tentative approach I started a friendly chat with someone I’d only known through Twitter, who looked nothing like the face I’d assigned to him in my mind. Being able to actually meet one of my imaginary Twitter friends was the highlight of my day.

Getting into the Exhibitors Hall proved easy once the line got moving, and I found myself inside one of the most overwhelming rooms I’d ever seen. It was every Con I’d ever gone to on steroids.

The first hour was all about the exclusives. Find them, claim them, cross them off your treasure hunt map.

After that it was a question of battle the crowds, have a wander around, and wonder how long it would take before you either dislocated a shoulder from carrying so much stuff, or your feet fell off. Being in the right place at the right time secured me Amanda Connor’s autograph – the second highlight of my day.

We were there for 2 hours but it felt like much longer, and we made our way back to the hotel staggering under the weight of our combined goodies. I’m sure I knocked a few people on the shuttle bus unconscious with my bags as I awkwardly shuffled down the aisle.

It was insane, but addictively insane. And as I pack my backpack in preparation for day 2, I’m already thinking ahead to SDCC 2013.

This is my first year doing Comic Con. I was way too excited for my own good, and certainly too excited for a 14 hour plane flight to get there. I packed several comics I wanted to get signed. I unpacked about 10 kilos of the comics I initially wanted to get signed.

I had no interest in seeing any of the in-flight movies, but given that I have no chance of sleeping in an upright position, it was better than boredom. I leaned further and further away from my friend as he slept and his limbs started to sprawl. I watched most of “Mystery Island 2” at a 45 degree angle. Finally I wedged an elbow in, reclaiming my portion of the armrest.

The highlight of the plane flight was the meal-times. Not unlike Pavlov’s Dog, my trained response to the smell of hot food and the squeaking of the food card was the immediate unlatching and flipping down of my tray.

I had comics to read courtesy of my friend - and he had comics to read courtesy of me - but you reach a certain level of tiredness and your reading ability becomes seriously impaired.

I wrote a little bit, but it was so awful when I looked back over it that I wanted to open the emergency hatch and throw it out so I’d never have to set eyes on it again.

14 hours later and we were at Los Angeles airport. Half an hour later we were at the front of the customs queue, being fingerprinted and digitally captured in case I committed some heinous crime whilst on American soil.

“What’s the purpose of your visit?” I was asked.

“Holiday.” I replied enthusiastically.

“Where are you going?” Came the next question.

“Comic Con. San Diego.”

“Oh yeah? You like comics?”

“I sure do. Spider-man’s my favourite character.”

“Have you seen the new Spider-Man movie?” Asked my customs guy. I thought I’d lucked out, and run into my first fellow comic book fan.

“Absolutely!” I enthused.

“When did that come out?” He asked casually.

Suddenly my brain froze. The thought was now in my head that maybe this was a test. Maybe if I couldn’t remember the exact release date of the Spider-Man movie he’d suspect something. I’d be interrogated, water-boarded, and finally deported as my apparent cover as a comic book enthusiast was blown. I could feel a trickle of sweat run down my back as I stared at the customs officer. I finally licked my dry lips and croaked out: “Oh, a couple of days ago.”

I told myself that my answer was too vague. I told myself that my lack of exact nerd detail was somehow going to see me locked up in Gitmo for an indeterminate period of time. I told myself that if I was a better nerd, this wouldn’t be happening.

“Oh. Cool. Enjoy your stay.”

My passport was stamped and slid back to me. I grabbed it and power-walked for the exit, mostly because of the connecting flight but partly just in case my geekishness was called further into question.

By the time we’d re-checked in I could barely keep my eyes open. 18 hours of no sleep was starting to catch up with me, and dragging my friend with me I headed to Starbucks and ordered the largest coffee available. I held up the whole queue with my unfamiliarity with American coinage, trying to work out what were quarters, what the Hell a dime was supposed to be, and which ones were 5c pieces.

My super-sized hit of caffeine only made me want to use what I’m now supposed to call “Restrooms”.

We finally boarded a small plane for a half-hour flight to San Diego. As I walked up the stairs to board the plane I noticed a man standing with one hand on the propeller, and wondered if he was the guy who was supposed to start the plane up. I was also fairly certain that if I Googled “plane crash Buddy Holly” a picture of our dinky little aircraft would come up.

The lack of luxury was more than compensated for by the flight attendant. There’s enthusiastic – then there’s this guy. He was walking up and down the aisle, he was working the crowd, he was calling me honey, he was doing the: “Hi, what’s your name?” with the little kids then, more disturbingly, with the adults.

When our plane started to move down the runway, he sat in his flight attendant seat then abruptly started nodding off, like someone had flicked his “sleep mode” switch. I guess that much enthusiasm can get exhausting after a while.

By this time the caffeine had kicked in. Given that I’d downed a coffee the approximate size of a small child’s head, I was practically bouncing off the cabin walls. Half an hour and I’d be in San Diego!!!!! Finally!!! At last!!! I kept poking my friend in the thigh and reiterating this fact, just in case he’d forgotten where we were heading. Even the bouncy flight attendant found my level of enthusiasm disturbing.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we were there. San Diego. The epicenter of geekishness. People were driving on the wrong side of the road, drivers were exiting at the wrong side of the vehicle – I was in America!!!!

I was out like a light by 7pm. Then awake at 10pm. Then my writers’ brain decided to spend the next 4 hours telling me what it wanted to say about my first day. I was on the verge of getting dressed, going back to the airport, tracking down the sleepy flight attendant and asking what his secret was.

I suspect that not being a writer helps.

I noticed that my friend was sleeping with his face down in the pillow. I wondered if I should be concerned, but given that he was all the way on the other side of the room I decided it was too much effort to check. Besides, if I squinted for long enough it looked like he was still moving. Probably.

I wondered if his untimely death by suffocation would put a serious dent in my Comic Con schedule. I figured I could fit the paperwork and funeral in amongst the panels and signings if need be.

Finally, somewhere shortly after 2am, I drifted off for a second time. My first full day in America loomed, and I wanted to be at least slightly rested and refreshed for it.

Failing all else, at least there was a Starbucks right around the corner.

One venti skinny latte to go, please. Double shot of caffeine.

gailsimone:

A writing legend passed away.

The thing about Ray Bradbury is he was an advocate for the human imagination. He was able to, perhaps he was compelled to, bring vistas and scenarios from his mind to the page in a manner that made the incredible seem not just plausible, but immediate and…

Dear Mr Millar,

Let me start by saying, I used to be a fan. Kickass was great – so awesome I even bought a copy of it for my nephew. Super Crooks was so good I recommended others to read it.

But this week I cancelled Super Crooks from my standing order.

Not because I’ve changed my mind about your writing. But because there are certain things I won’t tolerate in an individual, no matter how good their other qualities and no matter how much I appreciate their creative endeavours.

Your latest demonstration of the obvious contempt you have for the female sex has made me not only cancel my order of Super Crooks, but barely restrain myself from making a bonfire out of your other works.

I will quote your words directly. I haven’t altered or sensationalised them in any way, this is verbatim:

“I pitched this to DC for a laugh years back. The idea was that, like Death of Superman, we had Rape of Wonder Woman; a twenty-two page rape scene that opened up into a gatefold at the end just like Superman did.”

The rape of an icon of female empowerment.

For twenty two pages.

For a laugh.

And you see nothing wrong with this picture.

There is nothing joke-worthy about rape. There are no giggles and chortles to be found in the notion of the violent degradation of an individual.

Your comment was rude, thoughtless, and insensitive. And unfortunately, when I compare it to many other quotes by you, it seems to be completely within your character.

I will never buy any of your work again. I don’t care how good it is. I don’t care how many other people tell me how good it is. I don’t care if it wins awards, gets made into a movie, and is published into a glossy collectors editions. I will never give you another cent of my money or another second of my reading time.

You probably won’t give a crap about this. That would be in keeping with the sort of person you seem to be. But I hope that so many of your other readers feel the same way and take the same step.

For a laugh.

Now THAT would make me smile.