2006-05-01

you are a bitch fucking cunt ugly mother fucker shave your fuckingface

What's it like to be a blogger?
Someone asked me that not too long ago.
It's usually awesome. I have a few readers and I get some emails and I have a place to toss off things that I plan to develop further when I have more time and fewer outside, physical projects like rollerderby and my dog.

But other times, being a blogger can be a skin-thickening experience.
Witness:
"you are a bitch fucking cunt ugly mother fucker shave your fuckingface".
That's an email from Steve that I got today in reply to something I sent back in September.

I've referenced that September email - it was the item where I emailed to catch up, offered some nostalgia, and it resulted in the request to never speak to him again. I admit that it was emotional -September was when I was coming out of the circumstantial funk in which I'd spent the previous nine or so months.

That was hard times for me, really hard times.
I went to jail for a day. Yeah, it was 24 hours but it was an awesomely bad experience and something that devastated me on every level you can imagine.
I reached out to a lot people and all of the people who I reached out to were very kind and very responsive. Most people go through some hard times and are understanding of hard times when they happen to people that they cared about. Nobody else interpreted my reaching out as anything more than nostalgia and nobody else offered me cruelty Ė they ignored me or offered sympathy.
Case-In-Point: The Viking.

Conversely, I have received emails and phone calls from people who are in, or coming out of their own hard times. Blast from the past or whatever. Iím sure that if I wanted to, I could become irate and freak out and antagonize them with nasty comments months from now because I arrogantly read ďI want to be with youĒ in an email that they only meant as, ďI remember you.Ē
Case-In-Point: OHHHHHHH Shanna.
Or ever Arizona Chris to a certain degree.

Because I am satisfied with my life as it is, I take those reach-outs in stride. Some people need validation from strange places and who am I to deny that?
Especially when they are people who I used to love or who I at least cared about on some level?
Fuck that Ė who am I to deny that to anyone? Whether I like it or not, the person reaching out to me is there in my history. Who am I to deny them the need to say something to me?
I canít control that but I can control my response to it when it happens to me and because I am barely an adult, I assume that other people can also control their responses to my own fucked up requests for validation.
Thatís not always the case soÖ. my bad.

And I learned it back in September.
Per Steveís request back in September, I didnít contact him again.

Sadly, nasty and obvious comments surfaced on my website and after the second one, I did reach out to him - he got a gangsta rapping prank call from my Texas rollerderby friend.
It was hilarious and innocuous.... it was about biscuits and gravy, actually. It was at about the same maturity level as his comments and there was certainly no message of my burning desire for Steve and after the things that he said in my personal space, I earned an annoying phone call.

I had five emails in my personal email account this morning - all were responses to things that I had said, some things that I said literally years ago, and all were in reference to me moving on or my being a loser.

I'm not sure why Steve is the only person who doesn't see that it is him continuing to contact me, not the other way around but I think he feels two things:
1. When I write about him, it can only mean that I want him back.
2. That I have a hang up about body hair.

Let's look into Item Number 1.
This is my website.
This is my account, my history, my story.
I can write what I want and believe it when I say that I don't write anything about anyone that can't be corroborated by other people. Writing about someone doesn't mean you want that person back. I write about cleaning my house, too - that doesn't mean I want to be doing it most of the time.
Those people who choose to read something in a less-intellectualized way than my average reader or in a way that is unnecessarily assigns some subjective value to themselves have to take some initiative and some responsibility for their own feelings.
They need to control their reactions.
This website has developed into a chronicle of a late-coming-of-age. Someday, I hope that I can cull these pieces into a something bigger. Part of that experience of growing up involves dealing with Illinois and with a pretty abusive relationship, on both sides. That doesnít even come close to being evidence of being hung up on wanting to be back in Illinois or back with Steve. In the few areas where that could remotely be read if thatís what you were stuck on hearing, there is ALWAYS a reconciliation with myself and with where I am now Ė with why I left Illinois and with why I am in Arizona now; an acceptance of my mistakes in life and why I love them so much.
In this website, time passes.
Just like in real life.
In my life, I donít shove Steve around like a frustrated toddler anymore because time has passed.
The emails I got this morning were not devastating, they werenít disturbing, they werenít anything to me but expected from someone for whom time passes on a basic and unquestioned, unexplored way.

Item Number 2.
Body hair?
Thatís the give-away on every nasty comment that he makes.
Thereís not one other person who would think that telling me to shave is somehow an insult.
Itís puerile to repeatedly tell me that Iím ugly, that Iím fat, or to say anything about body hairÖ. not only are those the insults of a ten year old, but they donít apply. Those things bothered one person.
One.
Eight years ago.
Therefore, itís a giveaway when those comments appear here or in my email.

So do yourself a favor and stop reading.
If thatís not something you can do, understand that you contact me, not the other way around. You invite every single thing that you get.
Everything.
If that also isnít something you can do and you insist on nasty comments and dirty emails than understand that you canít scare me and you canít hurt me.
If, finally, you canít even get that Iím impervious to your barbs after 8 years of them then understand that Iím smarter than you and that continuing to try to get to me and hurt me only seems to be hurting you. It's only buring your energy, it's not burning mine;
So if thatís all you can get from all of this, youíve got to know that when it comes to words and actions and emotional development:
I. Am. Smarter. Than. You.

arizonasarah at 9:37 a.m.

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