The Earth and Why

Sometimes I hate people. Not all of them, all at once, but certain kinds of people.

I was thinking about writing a letter to someone, because I'm really incredibly tired of them mocking my best friend. (I decided against it. Not worth my time.) Oh, they weren't outright mocking her, but their reaction to something she posted was so completely inappropriate and it really stepped over the line into threats. I'm so disgusted, I feel like throwing up.

First, this person overracted to a cartoon, one that my friend posted. Let's call this person Jane. Jane decided, that since it was her birthday, that whatever everyone in the world wrote that day was about her. What didn't help is that the cartoon had a birthday theme. The thing is, it had nothing to with Jane. Really. Let me explain...

My friend has a long and colorful history with belching. And not just some little girly belch, that you cover up with your hand while "tee-hee"ing and say "Excuse me" to. No, these were belches of epic proportions, ones that rattled windows...and my mother's nerves. I really felt sorry for my mom, who grew up in house that you weren't allowed to fart in unless you were in the bathroom, to have to deal my friend's belches. And when we were kids (I've known her for...oh, god...for almost twenty years!), it was particularily obnoxious. (Then again, who isn't obnoxious when they're younger?) So one weekend, around the time when we were, oh...let me think...10/11/12 (maybe?), when my family went to our timeshare/resort/scam of the month, my friend came along with us. And boy, was my mother pissed at her constant belching. (I know where I got the Look of Death, Laser-beam Style from, it must be a genetic thing.) Finally, my mother, having endured a weekend of this, looked at her, and said, "If you don't cut that out, I'm gonna hit you over the head with the frying pan." (My mother never would actually do such a thing. Instead, you get the Laser Beam Look of Death, which was just as effective.) So what did my friend absolutely have to do? You guessed it. Another awe-inspiring belch, one that I'm sure people in other campers across the park heard. My mother just looked her with seething frustration, and the Death Look claimed another vitcim. To be fair, I really, really tried not to laugh. From then on, we had the running joke about the infamous belches and frying pans ("She's coming over. Should I hide the frying pans?").

Fast forward to years later. For days, I rambled on to my boyfriend about how he had to meet my friend. I told him that her belches would put most of his dorm floor to shame...and she was a girl. (Hehehehe. Those engineering types, they have nothin' on my friend! I must have been the only girl clearly unimpressed with the finest belches from the best and brightest male students of MSOE). So we were sitting around at my house, my mom sitting on the couch, my boyfriend in a chair, my friend at the other end of the couch. We fed her all the warm (I think it was warm, but I could be wrong) Sprite, and my mom looked at us suspiciously. And then my friend let out The Belch of Belches, a belch like no other; one that poets would later describe as "magnificent in its awful and disgusting glory"; one that historians would include in their lists of the "10 Wonders of the Post Modern World"; one that, as the last chords of it slowly echoed away, literally rattled the windows of the curio cabinets in our dining room, the delicate wine glasses still trembling in awe. The look on my boyfriend's face was priceless. You could tell that he never had encountered such a beautiful creature before this. He fell out of his chair in both shock and surprise. He was completely awed by that ferocious work of art.

What was my mom's reaction? "Don't make me get the frying pan." Along with the Death Look.

It's not that Jane took the cartoon in the wrong way. It's that she took a private joke between longtime friends and twisted into some horrible alterior motive against her. If she had wanted to know what the meaning behind it was, she could have asked in the comments. I certainly would have explained it to her. But instead, she twisted it around, selfishly assinging motives to my friend that clearly weren't there. But that doesn't piss me off. People do that all the time. Misunderstandings happen. And sometimes, people just get an idea in their heads and, even when confronted with actual evidence to the contrary, run with it as if it's gospel truth. It annoys me, but I can't be responsible for everyone's thought (or lack thereof) processes. What really pisses me off is that some little rat had the audacity to post about "angry lesbians" (Not a dig? No, it is, but that's another post. You are a syncophant for the patriarchy, and do not deserve any respect whatsoever if you dare say that) and how such a loooooser my friend is in a public blog, seen by a lot of people. That's over the line. Put it in your own blog, if you want to. Say it over the phone. But in a comment thread, where it's glaringly out of place in relation to the post? Really, it sticks out like a sore thumb among the other comments. And then, of all things, to write "What's her last name?". That is a threat. In the world of the Internets, where most people want to be anonymous, that is a threat. Taken in context, it's absolutely hostile. And that, dear friends, is what pisses me off. That some little rat is threatening somone over the motives of posting a fucking cartoon that someone found funny. I don't care if she had no intention of ever doing anything, a threat is still a threat. And it pisses me off. My friend did nothing to this little rat, and she retaliated by threatening her:

Wow, she is being a bitch. That was a slap in the face. Dont let it bother you though. She's an angry lesbian, (the lesbian part is not a dig, just the angry part) almost 30, living at home, and has all of 2 friends on her xanga (and in real life?). Who cares what she thinks. She is taking out her issues on you. Im proud of you. I couldnt sit in the sidelines and read that shit. What is her last name?

(Of course, when my friend politely asked her to stop on the rat's blog, she proceeded to delete every single comment that my friend made. Oh, and this rat, in any conversation of my friend, would preface it with "fucking bitch". As in, "Oh that fucking bitch [my friend's name], ..." or "Well, why don't you chat with so-and-so about the weather, [other stuff], how much of a fucking bitch [my friend] is....". Was my friend at times a fucking bitch? By her own admission, yes. The truth is, is that my friend is not a Fucking Bitch. At times, yeah. But not always. And that pretty much describes a lot of people. I am, however, a loud and proud card-carrying three-star member of the Fucking Bitch Club. So I know my friend's not a Fucking Bitch. The rat's not a member either; to earn your ranking, you have to express opinions that make people -- men and women -- call you an "angry lesbian", no matter your sexual preference. I can only hope to aspire to Hillary Clinton's four-star rating, the highest honor you can recieve. But I digress. The lapdogness of this rat is truly amazing. One has to wonder if she was, oh, maaaaybe, jealous of my friend? Putting stuff into people's heads by repetition? Are you pondering what I'm pondering?)

I would not want that person as a friend. In fact, I have known people like this. They are nice to you until they don't like you anymore. And they'll come up with some of the dumbest justifications to hate you. Because if they don't like you, they hate you with a bottomless pit of seething hatred. They say one thing, profess to never do something like that, but then they go ahead and do it. Where do I know people like that from? Ah, the coffeeshop. Yes, the same coffeeshop with The Artist, The Texan (who's now The Gay Texan), and The Writer. Scary Eyes and Creepy Girl. There was also the self-righteous pompous ass who felt threatened by two sixteen year olds talking to her 27 year old boyfriend. God, she had a lot of people who worshipped the ground that she walked on. And it took very little for her to hate someone. You could just look at her wrong, or say "Hi" to her boyfriend, and she would get pissed at you. No, wait; not pissed at you, she hated you. The shit she said and did to people she didn't like was amazing.

There was a girl that would hang around. One day, she was sitting at their table. She made the mistake of picking up The Bitch's book, looking at it, and putting it down. She also laughed at a comment The Bitch's boyfriend made. (I never really found anything he said to be funny, but apparently, that was just me.) It didn't matter that The Bitch had laughed at the comment too, nor did it matter that The Bitch was always going through your things. But because that girl did it, OH MY FUCKING GOD, WHAT A SELF CENTERED BOYFRIEND STEALING WHORE she was. I'm not kidding you, that was what was said. Then, she proceeded to tell everyone how much of a boyfriend stealing whore this girl was, and not only that, told total strangers (who had no clue that the girl existed) that they shouldn't talk to her. It was so bad, that The Bitch threatened to get a restraining order against this girl. The Bitch tried to get her kicked out of the coffeeshop permanantly. The thing is, the girl didn't DO anything to her. The girl was just trying to be friendly. I saw this happening, and I knew I did not want to be friends with The Bitch. In fact, a former friend of hers came up to talk to me (she had been The Bitch's best friend, and when she didn't like her anymore, proceeded to broadcast to anyone in earshot -- a full city block, mind you -- that she was a whore and a bitch), and we had a pleasant conversation that revolved around all of the lies that The Bitch was spreading about her former friend. "I know that [The Bitch] is saying all of this stuff about me, and I don't really care for the most part. I only want a few people to know the truth." And I was one of those people. Why? Because I didn't worship the ground The Bitch walked on. And I wasn't going to be her friend out of fear that she would do that to me. I kept a distance because I didn't want to be dragged into such a vile, repugnant pile of waste, meaningless and senseless cruelity, all for The Bitch's approval. I had better things to do. I think the thing that really disgusted me was the fact that when the girl (the boyfriend stealing whore) was raped, it wasn't even 24 hours before they were telling every single in person in the coffeeshop that she was a liar and a whore. They were yelling it in front of the shop, at the top of their lungs. I'm not kidding about this either.

Which brings me back to the rat. Granted, not everyone of this genre is like The Bitch, but the potential for such things to get to that point is HUGE. And it starts with something made up out of nothing. It's not enough to make fun of someone; oh, no, they have to be destroyed. The rat can tell whatever lies she wants to herself to placate the small shred of whatever resembles her conscience, but it doesn't fool me. One look at her blog, and I see shades of The Bitch. The people who worshipped The Bitch? They were varying degrees of the same thing. So yes, she is a rat, of the same type of people who swim in a cesspool of cruelty, condemned to only be happy if they get their way all of the time, and burdened by the many imaginary enemies that they must anhilate to make their planet a perfect, happy furry puppy place with rainbows and unicorns.

I am not a violent person. But these people will provoke you to the point of violence. They are insanely jealous people who, once they don't like you, will set out to destroy you. I hope that the rat wouldn't do that to Jane, if it ever came to that. I would hate to see a seedling struggling to grow get cruelly yanked out of the ground because someone didn't like the fact that it was there.

[Updates]: Turned on the comments, because if asshats comment, well, I can delete or ban them. Hopefully, they won't see this, or comment, for the reason that THIS IS A PRIVATE CONVERSATION between two friends, and doesn't involve them at all. THIS IS NOT MEANT FOR YOU AT ALL. And if you do comment, all I have to say is this: Why? Why are you commenting on something that's PRIVATE? GO AWAY. This site is meant for the whole 3 people who are my friends, or someone who totally is in no way, even tangentally, connected to me. There is no inbetween here. That said, for my friend, you can liken the rat to this person: Helaine Olen, who wrote some scathing and untrue things about this person, only to be reprimanded of such patriarchial behavior. Real life, in your fucking face, baby, kinda stuff. Luvs~~

"Memo to myself:

...Do the dumb things I gotta do. Touch the puppet head."

So I've been doing a bit of hiding out. I'm torn between wanting to talk with friends and just being alone. In my space, alone, the glorious freedom of not doing a damn thing except romping around in the playground of my imagination, semblances of visions and hopes for a better world. I keep thinking about these things that roll around in my head. The black haired girl, the victorian people, Black Jacket, the young Hosea...all of these images roll around and around, and I want to understand them better. The thing is, who the fuck is going to believe me? It sounds so incredibly crazy.

That is the one thing I don't get. How do I know certain things, out of thin air? Why do I have dreams about things happening to me, only to find out later that they actually happened to someone else? And it's not random, these dreams, it's really specific. Or that I just know stuff. It's something that's always permeated my life, a force that I really cannot explain. And what's worse, is that not many people understand it. Especially the logical ones. But then again, as I've explained to certain people, just because they don't understand it and can't doesn't mean it doesn't happen and that it's not real to me. If you want to think I'm crazy, well, fine, but the next time I say, "You have at least try to get medicaid", that's not a suggestion, it's a warning. I warn the people I care about. Because it's a whole lot more than the people I know, it's the people I don't know, too. God, what would I give to have this only for friends and not also for random strangers. Sometimes by touch, even. It grates on your soul sometimes, and then you have to listen to music or play games or visit children just to get it off for awhile. But it will be back. It's always there, in the background.

And I just want to know if these people exsited. I really wish I knew.

A Difference

He said that reading this would help me to better understand where he was coming from. There were also several other links, but the main one was the gist of it: he belives in logic. He is logical.

Thanks. I'm just nothing but last year's Christmas fruitcake. AssHat.

But I have found a definition of me, without any fancy articles. And I'm not talking in the Phlosophy movement sense. I'm talking just strict definition. Or not, if you focus on certain aspects of my character.

But that wasn't my main point; the point is, is that it took me this long to figure out that he was saying that I was not logical. That what, I have absolutely no capacity for logic? That I wouldn't have any understanding of it? That I don't at least have a passing acquaintace with logic?

I am a practical person. I can dicuss myself in ways that many, many, many people cannot. I can predict things about people and their behavior. The thing is, why is that illogical? Or was he talking about the fact that he's science based and looks at stars because looking within and doing something about it would be....too...hard. It's not difficult to do it. Hell, with practice, it's easy, and the same goes for talking about it.

And, after all this time of saying the same fucking things over and over again, and them causing fights, two weeks ago it didn't. And hasn't since then. What happened? Really, what did? That he said something unpleasant about me and I acted like an adult about it, which was way more than he'd ever do for me? I don't get why sudden he can talk about it.

Oh, well. I just wish I could find my delicious man.

I Know

I knew you when you were oh-so-high, by your polish relatives, by your dark hair. I knew you when you had the female friend you had, to play and taunt, as she would you.

I know you from some other place, some other demension, some other time. Do you remember, the girl, Deutschland, in the polka-dotted dress? With the dark hair? What was her doll's name? I would know if I could remember, but she was a ghost. Hilde? "Die Schoeneste"? You know. Her name. The name of the doll. She spoke to the man. At the camp. "Arbeit Macht Frei". That camp. Im Potsdam. "Die Russen sind mein Fruend nicht" or something along those lines. I studied "Deutschsprache" to know what the fuck she was saying. Because she haunted me. Am I her? Am I someone who knows? Or do I not know, being born into someone else who seemingly won't see it? Was there, in Berlin, a mass riot that no one knows about? Was that me, to see the things I didn't want to, or is it a future? I don't know. All I can see is the riot. And before that , the girl, in the polka-dotted dress, with the doll, with the long black hair. What, if anything, does it fucking mean?

I do not know. All I see are visions, versions of the past or of the present, I do not know. Sometimes I wish life was sci-fi, because then, I would know for sure. Or is it just me? And now do I have to learn Chinese?

I sincerly, and deeply, hate being me. With all my heart. I want to die. But to die would be them, to find out who is haunting me with these images. To die is to know, and to know for the little I do would be a travesty of justice. Or so...I would like to think. How many people do you know, that would like to die, to find out why the ghosts of years ago haunt them....

Pastime or Habit?

I have this habit, or pastime, of challenging people.

No one ever loves me enough, so then I have to stretch their limits....how far will you go to hang out with me? To like me? To tolerate me?

What's odd is that I find that bar is surpisingly low. It could be my sense of humor, or it could just be the internet. I recently made a comment on a friend's blog that was meant as purely sarcastic, but I don't think that it really came across that way. I didn't mean it to sound snipy, but I did mean it as a "of course you're part of the human race, um, that's how we all feel at times, it's not that unusal" kind of thing, other than the way it sounded: "uh, asshole, yeah, you and what army?" kind of way. And now I feel bad. I didn't mean it in a horrible way, and I hope she understands that, so not in the "Letters to AssHat" kind of way, but in the snarky, "what the fuck do you think my blog is about, anyway?" kind of way. There's a difference, at least to me. But I do understand, and given the people that she's been about lately, I can see how that would be very misinterpreted. Or maybe I'm the asshole, in not thinking that she would know and the response equally snarky. But that's the whole fucking problem with the internets; what's the snark/snark, what's serious? Sarcasm, especially the brand of sarcasm that some of us are soooo fond of, does not play well in the realm of just words. If we are who we are by words, then we are all such a sorry bunch. Because it's not so much the words, as it is the tone. And it's really, really hard to convey the tone....

Because I'm constantly on the edge of a forest fire, knowing that I could put it out, but also knowing that sometimes it is beneficial to let it burn, to use an analogy.....