A Few Months Ago
A few months ago, an internet friend tore down her site. People were writing her malicious letters and there were probably other cruel things, unmentionable things that were entailed in the breaking of a person that she didn’t want to mention. I told her to take it all lightly, and make a link for the hate mail. Laugh it off, but the truth is—it’s difficult to walk away unscathed when they use your life as ammunition.
Somehow people [both strangers and people I had come to know] believe this is who I am. This journal is just a way for people who call me their friend to keep tabs on me without contacting me. It’s superficial snippets into the life of a stranger, an old friend, someone—at the time, who just seemed interesting; people want so much to believe that this is who I am; the witty person, the comic genius, the Tao, or the truth [political, pop-culture, and journalism]. But these entries were all written by a sycophant.
It’s who I am at my angriest point—I picked up that pencil at rock bottom and just started carving into the walls like a Neanderthal; heartbreak, liars, and betrayal all written in anger. I write to judge, even though it was my intention to just share—then I’m called weak, I’m vilified, I’m hated because something personal became public.
Publicity always outweighed everything else; being called at relentlessly at midnight to prank Chinese food orders, because they thought it was funny. Yelled at because he thought I told the world that he was gay, even though I didn’t. Not talking to people because I don’t want to put them in the middle of unsaid and uncomfortable feud. Made to feel guilty because I cared and she didn’t. It’s not her fault. But I’m compelled to protect the ones that hurt me, because somewhere between the beginning and the end, I wanted to preserve the dignity of what we were by just stepping away.
Somehow people [both strangers and people I had come to know] believe this is who I am. This journal is just a way for people who call me their friend to keep tabs on me without contacting me. It’s superficial snippets into the life of a stranger, an old friend, someone—at the time, who just seemed interesting; people want so much to believe that this is who I am; the witty person, the comic genius, the Tao, or the truth [political, pop-culture, and journalism]. But these entries were all written by a sycophant.
It’s who I am at my angriest point—I picked up that pencil at rock bottom and just started carving into the walls like a Neanderthal; heartbreak, liars, and betrayal all written in anger. I write to judge, even though it was my intention to just share—then I’m called weak, I’m vilified, I’m hated because something personal became public.
Publicity always outweighed everything else; being called at relentlessly at midnight to prank Chinese food orders, because they thought it was funny. Yelled at because he thought I told the world that he was gay, even though I didn’t. Not talking to people because I don’t want to put them in the middle of unsaid and uncomfortable feud. Made to feel guilty because I cared and she didn’t. It’s not her fault. But I’m compelled to protect the ones that hurt me, because somewhere between the beginning and the end, I wanted to preserve the dignity of what we were by just stepping away.
This entry was posted
on Tuesday, June 14 at 2:05 PM.
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2:04 PMthought-provoking, mootable pv. just my thoughts, well anyways gl & be chipper is what i say
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