I just learned about a new privilege I have: blonde privilege (no, I ain’t linking that crap; go Google if you must). It’s true; my hair is naturally blonde. Light blonde even. Now let me tell you how great it was to grow up with all that blonde privilege.

First, there was the steady flow of dumb blonde jokes ranging from the idiotically sexist to the viciously misogynistic with such hilarious punchlines as the one about women who look like me being too dumb to know when we’re being raped. I know, right? That’s a real thigh-slapper. Particularly when told to a girl who’s both blonde and a rape victim. Hearing that shit on the radio or TV was bad enough, but it was even worse when people I knew, supposed friends even, told such “jokes” right in front of me, expecting me to do what? Laugh?

Then there were the wonderful assumptions many people routinely made about my intelligence and supposed shallowness. Not only was I often presumed to be dumb unless and until I repeatedly provided evidence to the contrary, but lots of people also figured I had neither knowledge of, nor interest in “serious” stuff like politics, law, environmentalism, and social justice movements. Because everyone knows that girls who look like me are airheads who are all about fashion and guys and parties and shopping.

Another huge advantage of being blonde was the type of guys I attracted. Thank goddess I have small breasts or I would have hit the trifecta. Still, talk about being a magnet for the biggest assholes around, the type of guys who think of their girlfriends as trophies. When I was too young to know better, I actually dated a couple of guys who introduced me to their friends like a prized possession while I stood there wishing the earth would swallow me. Meanwhile the progressive and alternative dudes I was interested in thought they were “protesting” mainstream culture with its constant messages that all guys prefer blondes by NOT being into blondes. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I realized any guy who thought a woman’s hair color was this important wasn’t worth my time.

I haven’t written for a while because my best friend was dying of cancer and nothing else seemed important. It’s been three weeks now since she passed away, and the world feels like an awfully dreary place without her in it. She is the second close friend/family member who has died this year, and I was still reeling from the first death (a tragic accident) when I learned that my best friend’s cancer was terminal.

At times like these I wish I was religious and/or believed in some type of afterlife. It would be easier to cope if I thought I’d see my loved ones again some day. Unfortunately I don’t. I think when we die, that’s it. Game over. Of course I could be wrong. I hope I’m wrong.

The thing is, if I thought there’s an afterlife, I might be tempted to join my loved ones right now. That’s what I don’t get about religious people who claim to be certain that they’re going to Heaven and all that: Even when they’re old and sick and in a lot of pain, most of them cling to life until the last moment, opting for every conceivable medical procedure to prolong their existence in this world. Why? If you really believe that Heaven is waiting, why hang around after so many of your loved ones have already died, your body has broken down, and you’re in excruciating pain? I guess they don’t have as much faith in this stuff as they would have us believe.

It’s the same with abortion. According to the belief system of most anti-choicers, wouldn’t that “innocent unborn child” be on the express elevator to Heaven once a pregnancy has been aborted? Spared all the pain and torment and injustice of this world. And no chance to fuck up and end up in Hell. Isn’t that a good thing?