February, 2005
Vic•tim
1 : A living being offered as a sacrifice in a religious rite.
2 : An individual injured or killed (as by disease or accident).
3 : A person cheated, fooled or injured.
4 : A new magazine for people who believe that falling victim to something is not to be attacked but to be chosen.
It’s for people who see beyond the literal definition of things.
We’re not talking about muggings or burglaries or being held captive in the basement with rope around our wrists (unless, of course, that’s the kind of thing you’re into, and then, yes, that’s what we’re talking about). Our victims are those who’ve been sabotaged by muggings of the heart, burglaries of free will, or who’ve been held captive by an overwhelming, all-consuming passion. Stealing someone’s heart isn’t a crime, although some of us think it should be, because it’s the kind of attack we summon with our auras of come-hitherness. Neither is owning 200 pairs of shoes a crime, even if half of them are black and practically identical to the untrained eye. Yet, some of us would admit to being victims of shoes. We’d swear they are made with invisible magnets that lasso us into buying them. So you get a little in debt. Debt doesn’t have to walk around in public and look good.
The fact is, we’re not sacrificed for falling prey to our whims. And not catering to them would be its own kind of death, the kind that eats at our spirit. As humans, we want to be overtaken by something beyond our control. Because being in control is boring.
We crave drama. We ask for chaos. Without it, we wouldn’t be able to fee our own souls.
It’s not just the heartbreak and the shoes that haunt us. We can be victims of anything.
We are victims of ice cream, victims of the written word, victims of that song that reminds us of that time, victims of the snooze alarm, victims of laughing until we almost pee, victims of deep, intense conversation, victims of how our asses look in those jeans, victims of wine, victims of having our backs rubbed, victims of childhood, victims of the big-nose gene, or the too-small-whatever gene, victims of the beat, no matter how bad we dance, victims of chocolate, victims of sex, drugs and rock and roll, victims of loneliness, victims of escape, victims of the cell phone, victims of make-up, perfume and scented candles, victims of gossip, victims of dancing around the fire naked, victims of everything and anything that keeps us roused all night, then yanks us out of bed in the morning.
You’re a victim if you believe that we don’t choose the things that happen to us in our lives, they choose us. And you’re a victim if you believe it’s the choices you make that create who you are. Either way, to be victimized is to be forever changed, so if you want to be forever the same you might as well stop reading now. But please pass our magazine on to that person next to you who wants to set the world ablaze.
Synonyms for victim include lying on the altar, or being thrown to the wolves. Ironically, that is what some have said to us about starting a magazine, or to anyone who has attempted something where the statistics for failure were stacked against him. If the divorce rate is so high, why are people still getting married? Why do people play the lottery? Or gamble? Or bet? What’s with that force that pulls us toward things we know are bad for us? Why is being bad so much fun? Why do we break the rules when there’s a good chance we’ll get caught? Or is it the opportunity of being caught that drives us to break them? Are we still victims if we’re chasing after what’s chasing us? If getting caught is subconsciously what we want, does that make us victims of wanting to be victims? Are we fools? Basket cases? Suckers? Martyrs? We sure hope so.
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