I have very little idea of who Lena Dunham is. I think the only time I ever heard of her was when a reporter caused a kerfuffle by asking her about her nudity on her HBO show “Girls.” Disclaimer; I hate HBO, and I’ve never seen “Girls”. Don’t know if I’m missing much, but hey, I ain’t paying so I ain’t complaining. The question drove Ms. Dunham into what she called a “Rage Spiral.” What I gathered from that exchange is that Ms. Dunham is entitled, immune from any sort of questioning and you do so at the risk of sending her into a “Rage Spiral”. It appears that Ms. Dunham is spiraling once again, this time because people had the audacity to review her memoir and publish exactly what she wrote. Her words, it seems, are offensive to her but only if you take them at face value. Not sure how else she intended her readers to take them, but you be the judge.

Ms. Dunham; actress and part-time geologist

Ms. Dunham; actress and part-time geologist

A couple of weeks ago, I’m perusing through National Review and find a review of her book that I glossed over rather quickly. I’m not into pop-icons, either to revere or trash them, so I never got past the first paragraph or so. Now however, it seems that the article has spurred quite a conversation about Ms. Dunham. And to be frank with you, I had to go back and re-read it to find out what the fuss was all about. Surprise; Ms. Dunham describes in detail things that she did to her younger sibling that would at the very least, make your hair stand on end. Well, for most of us anyway. For others, well I’m not so sure. And feeling that way obviously makes me and others who are disturbed by her admission, the weirdo’s. Sweet. Let’s just take a peek for a moment at what Ms. Dunham writes in regards to her activities;

“As she grew, I took to bribing her for her time and affection: one dollar in quarters if I could do her makeup like a “motorcycle chick.” Three pieces of candy if I could kiss her on the lips for five seconds. Whatever she wanted to watch on TV if she would just “relax on me.” Basically, anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was trying.”

Okay, not sure what the intent is here, but anyone who says that they are practicing the fine art of grooming an abuse victim has issues. What the hell does “relax on me” mean? Because I find her admission disturbing, I’m a right-wing hater. Bite me. Of course, there’s this little gem;

“I shared a bed with my sister, Grace, until I was seventeen years old. She was afraid to sleep alone and would begin asking me around 5:00 P.M. every day whether she could sleep with me. I put on a big show of saying no, taking pleasure in watching her beg and sulk, but eventually I always relented. Her sticky, muscly little body thrashed beside me every night as I read Anne Sexton, watched reruns of SNL, sometimes even as I slipped my hand into my underwear to figure some stuff out.”

Neat-o. She’s basically a seventeen year-old predator, snuggling up against her eleven year-old sister, masturbating the night away. Oh, and I’m the one who is disturbed.

It’s interesting, a little startling actually, to see people come to her defense, explaining it away as a youthful indiscretion, playing doctor, as it were. Just ask Jimmy Kimmel. Can’t say as I’ve ever played doctor, and certainly wouldn’t have considered my sisters as the willing patient, although I’m not sure a one year-old would be able to consent in any way. The story always went something like two pre-pubescent’s, alone on a secluded corner of the playground swapping peeks into each other’s Garanimals, trying to understand the stark differences in their physical appearance. Show me yours, I’ll show you mine. Oh hell, who am I kidding; we always tried to get the girls wearing dresses to hang upside down on the monkey bars. So of course, that makes Ms. Dunham’s treasure hunt into her one year-old sister’s vagina okay. Her words, not mine;

““Do we all have uteruses?” I asked my mother when I was seven.

“Yes,” she told me. “We’re born with them, and with all our eggs, but they start out very small. And they aren’t ready to make babies until we’re older.”

I looked at my sister, now a slim, tough one-year-old, and at her tiny belly. I imagined her eggs inside her, like the sack of spider eggs in Charlotte’s Web, and her uterus, the size of a thimble.

“Does her vagina look like mine?”

“I guess so,” my mother said. “Just smaller.”

One day, as I sat in our driveway in Long Island playing with blocks and buckets, my curiosity got the best of me. Grace was sitting up, babbling and smiling, and I leaned down between her legs and carefully spread open her vagina. She didn’t resist, and when I saw what was inside I shrieked. “My mother came running. “Mama, Mama! Grace has something in there!”

My mother didn’t bother asking why I had opened Grace’s vagina. This was within the spectrum of things that I did. She just got on her knees and looked for herself. It quickly became apparent that Grace had stuffed six or seven pebbles in there. My mother removed them patiently while Grace cackled, thrilled that her prank had been such a success.”

Please read that again. Go ahead, one more time. She wants you to; it’s in her friggin’ book. It is after all, well within the “spectrum of things she did.” To a one year-old. To her baby sister. Couple of questions here; When my daughters were one, they had a helluva a time with their dexterity, chubby little fingers dropping the over-sized Duplos and wooden blocks. And everything went into their mouths. How does a one year old manage to pick up a handful of pebbles, push aside her pampers and deposit the secret treasure neatly into her vagina? Or even better, why would she do that? At a time when the greatest fear of every parent, reinforced by warnings from pediatricians everywhere, is to keep small items out of reach of your child because they have a tendency to put everything in their mouth, Ms. Dunham’s little sister has a go at jamming items well up inside her vagina? Let that sink in for a minute. I’ve had to reach deep into a drooling mouth many a time searching for buttons, loose coins, heads of dolls, keys, you name it. Never once had either of my daughters decided it would be a great time to play hide-and-go-pervert with daddy’s car keys. Someone neatly placed those pebbles there or the child had ample grooming that helped her develop the fine motor skills beyond her age that enabled her to do so. Perhaps in the Dunham home, this was well within the spectrum of things they did.

So Ms. Dunham is once again in a spiral, this time threatening to sue the conservative website “Truth Revolt” for what amounts to printing exactly what she wrote in her book. It should make for a great show trial. She’ll probably have to go after all the other outlets, including National review who excerpted her book as well. She has canceled her book tour, originally outraged at being described as a sexual predator, now claiming she’s ill. Yes dear, you are ill. And so are those who defined your actions as purely innocent “playing doctor”, seeking to give a pass on behavior that would surely have scarred a one year old, behavior that continued until you, Ms. Dunham, were seventeen and presumably well beyond “playing”.

Ms. Dunham has been lionized for being edgy, out there, speaking her mind unabashedly. She is now lashing out at anyone who read her own words with disgust, surprised and hurt that her “edginess” has not been accepted as the new normal behavior she would like you to believe it is. Sorry dear, I don’t know who you are, never really cared to find out and don’t plan on getting HBO anytime soon. But your own words have come back to haunt you and I’d take great pleasure at seeing you move this forward into a court of law. Maybe you can find guys like Mr. Kimmel to sit at the plaintiffs’ table with you.

Oh and by the way; yeah, it’s pretty sick.