Had a bad day yesterday. Went to the woods by myself and got a little drunk. Came home and discovered that, in the time I'd been out, somebody had signed up my email address for over forty DAILY email-newsletters. It took me three hours to make sure all the damage was undone. This wasn't just spam. This was companies requesting confirmation of my subscriptions to such-and-such, made at such-and-such time (while I was drunk in the forest). This was somebody who had used the name Helena Thomas to sign up MY email address for four dozen newsletters. I've gotten spam in this account before, but VERY little... Fifteen junk-mails in an HOUR? That's fucking unheard of. I've kept this email address IMMACULATELY free of junk mail. Somebody had created PASSWORDS for me to sites I've NEVER been to, and those sites emailed me to thank me for subscribing to their shit.
What kind of fucking asshole would do this shit?
Another email from that crazy kid Lance. Yeah, that's right, buddy: you're fucking insane. I'm sure you're reading this, so let's be upfront with each other: I think you're motherfucking insane! Yeah, another email from him. It was such a huge message that Angelfire wouldn't even display it. On really long messages, you have to hit the "reply" button in order to see what the fuck you got sent. I don't know WHY it said this email was so big. All it was was one of those Zen-style stories you see on desk calendars. The story? A parable which claimed "persistance pays" as its moral.
I really fucking hate you, you stupid piece of shit. You want to give me shit, you do it like a man, like a real man, face to face, not hiding behind all your cowardly screen-names. Not hiding behind the 25 NYTIMES.com subscriptions you signed me up for, or all the others. I'm man enough to give YOU the goddamned what-for. What kind of a frightened, weepy little boy are you that you have to piss me off while cowering behind your anonymous little internet-shield? Speak up, little boy! What seems to be the problem? You want to fuck with me, you're going to fuck with me on MY terms. That is, in the open. If you're going to keep emailing me these vague, whiny pseudo-threats and immature insults, they're going to get posted in this journal, email addresses and all, so that my readers can virtually do to you what they will. If you want to apologize and leave me the fuck ALONE already, you can avoid all that. If you've got somethin' to say, little boy, you'd best be out with it. It appears to me that since you're not giving up, we're going to have to take this outside. Well, fucking fine, little boy. I'm out here and I'm waiting.
And what the fuck is this "persistance pays" bullshit? Persistance? Gahd knows you never get fucking sick of harassing somebody who a.) never did a damned thing to you, and b.) couldn't care LESS about you, whether you lived or died. Yeah, fine, so you're persistant. All that means is that you're a fucking obsessive FREAK, little boy. Means you've got nothing better in this world to do than hide behind a screen-name and send me your whiny half-threats and desperate pleas for attention. What the hell? You think I'll go out with you if you keep telling me what a bitch I am? Little boy, I KNOW what kind of a bitch I am. I'm MY OWN BITCH, for starters. And while I may have had the occasional attraction to somebody who might have benefitted from a psychiatric evaluation, I don't do psychos. And, sorry, but if you can't properly ask a girl out for coffee (which does NOT involve stalking her friends, or telling her that God will damn her to hell or what-the-fuck-ever), I don't see much hope for you at all, "persistance" or no. All your "persistance" is getting you is this entry and a promise to fuck with you just as much as you decide to fuck with me.
YOU, little boy, can try to scare me all you want, but it's not going to work. And you can try to get me to go out with you, or WHATEVER is going through your lunatic head, all you want... but seriously, seriously, I can do a hundred million times better than some loser jackass who sits on his ass all day sending nasty messages to girls he finds in the personals.
Get a life, get some therapy, get a goddamned original screen-name ("Chuck U. Farlie" -- hoooo-boy, there's some fine motherfucken original art...), get a clue of how the hell to respect a beautiful, intelligent human being. Then we'll talk. And if you've got something to say in the meantime, well then fucking have out with it already instead of giving me this vague "persistance" bullshit. What do you want already? What do you think the pay-off is going to be? I'll tell you RIGHT now there's not going to be any payoff for you, but you might as well get it off your chest, whatever it is that you want from me so I can make sure not to give it to you.
And if you can't grow up and act like a fucking man, you are hereby cordially invited to shoot yourself in the head. Don't do it near the Puget Sound; nobody wants your ass polluting it any more than it's already been polluted.
Have a great day.
~Helena*