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Monday, Feb. 24, 2003 / 6:44 p.m. ~Angry Entry~ How utterly ridiculous for a total stranger, from Wisonsin yet!, to drop in and read one entry and tell me she has a problem with my opinions. It just fits right in with the rest of this crappy fucking day, with more total strangers dicking me around on the phone, for no other reason than because they can. That's the nature of customer service. But in my fucking diary I don't have to take it. I can tell you that all the black women in my department eat chicken on a nightly/daily basis, and that in Summer Listerine is a horrible stereotype with her watermelon. And I can tell you that when I walk by the Mexcians' apartment downstairs there are children and several different people all milling about some broken down car, the smell of tortillas wafting over it all. And I can say that welfare is alive and perhaps not well, but plenty of people still live off of it. I see the papers float across my desk every single fucking day. I can say this and anything else I want, politically correct or otherwise, because this is the place I've set myself up to say it. And Mark always tells me what power I have to rile people so, and I shrug my shoulders though he can't see me over the phone, and I say I don't ever mean to do it. I'm sensitive and compassionate, yet blunt and outspoken. I say what you're afraid to say. I observe and I comment. I've not lied about anything. It's all what it is, as I saw it, as it happened. And JesusFuckingChrist, when I write an entire entry about how I'm bleeding and I'm cramping and I hate that my uterus contracts and my unfertilized eggs are released in an awfully painful and bloody way every month leaving me miserable and low and shaky with anemia, and depressed and cynical and bitter and I mention that I wish I could see a future for all the beautiful children of the world, but I think all of us who trampled here before them have ruined it, have destroyed any hope of a wondrous future, well give me a giant fucking break. Especially if you're a total stranger to me and you've not sifted through all 800 plus entries in this fucking diary. I'm so fucking pissed off about it, I really am. Becky. Do I know you, Becky? In what capacity do you work for the state of Wisconsin? And do you drop into every emo diary to tell people what you have a problem with? "You cut yourself, I have a problem with that", "You don't like George Bush, I have a problem with that", "You think fetuses should be aborted rather than raised in low income housing and left to root around in shrubbery all day because their mother is too busy talking on her fucking cell phone to take them to a park and she doesn't have a car anyway, but her husband is chopping up some car in the parking lot so maybe they can afford something soon, but I have a problem with that". I have a problem with you. I have a problem with anyone who has a problem with anything I write here. Always have, always will. I had a really bad day. Some asshole gave me shit first thing this morning, some stranger, some fucking man on the phone, and he kept me there, giving me shit, because he could. And I had to fucking take it, because I'm paid to fucking take it, fuck me up my ass, harder, skip the lube, asshole. And then some fucking stranger, another one, has to come here and tell me what she has a problem with. MY fucking opinions expressed in my diary in an entry in which I mention that they're just my fucking opinions, bleak at that, expressed in my fucking diary. Do I NEED this? You know? This is my outlet. This is my place to vent, to whine, to moan, to bitch, to write nonsense if I feel, this is my place and it's sacred to me. I don't know why I allow anyone else to read it, but I do, and I count on you not reading much, I count on you not going back in the archives because you wouldn't still want to read if you knew what I wrote then. You'd find something, one thing, one thing to focus on, one thing you'd have a problem with. You'd write and tell me what a PROBLEM you have with this comment or that comment, or that racist remark, or that comment about teenagers, or using lowercase, or whatever, but it was how I felt, it was my perception of my world. This is MY world. And those people downstairs are MY neighbors and you don't see how they live, you don't see the immigrants in the trailer park down the street from the poultry abbatoir, you don't live with these people, with my neighbors, and you don't work with my coworkers, and you are not me. I'm me and this is me. I might have otherwise written about how wonderful it was to see Simon and Garfunkel sing "Sounds of Silence", live, last night on the Grammys, or James Taylor with Yo Yo Ma, or how amazing I think Eminem is, what a fan I'm becoming, what a great night of music last night was, and how odd it was they didn't award more awards in the live broadcast, and how Bonnie Raitt (it was her, right?) had on a ribbon like I wear on my jacket, a blue ribbon for peace, and she and Fred Durst were the only two to comment on the war at all..... and how according to Moby's diary CBS forbid any musician to say anything about it, threatened to censor them...... I might have written that if I weren't so fucking pissed off. I see the stats every day and I don't know who the majority of you people are. And I've said that before, and the people who I know came forward and said, "It's me", and I know that, I know you, but the rest, the search engine hits, the surfers, the assholes looking for a fight, I'm so very over it. I'm just so over it right now. Right now feels like crap. And Jonathan Cainer said last week would be horrible, but this one much better and it's quite the opposite. He wrote something really ominous on his site yesterday, let me see if I can find it.... nah, forget it, he hasn't archived it yet and it's from yesterday - today's 'thought for the day', but he already has tomorrow's on there. It said something about an event more urgent than the war on Iraq coming to the forefront. It was spooky. I'm calmer now. I think writing 'fuck' a lot helped. So, fuck. And hey, for all the anti-capitalist/anarchists out there who might drop in to see what might make you sign my guestbook to tell me you have a problem about (weird, bad sentence, I know), I got food from McDonald's tonight after work!!! That's right, the evil McFuckingDonald's. Because I felt weak and I didn't want to go to the store and I didn't want to have to get out of my car (which is NOT an SUV), and I wanted something filling and fast and red meat-y as I have been feeling anemic lately. So fucking there. Tell me all about how much you have a problem with me now, might as well jump on in. Cost of the War in Iraq
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Recent Entries: It Was 40 Years Ago Today - 9:44 a.m. , Friday, Oct. 12, 2012 Dead Black Cat - 9:07 a.m. , Wednesday, Jan. 25, 2012 As Seen From Outer Space - 1:07 a.m. , Saturday, Dec. 05, 2009 I Survived to Tell the Tale - 7:29 a.m. , Friday, Sept. 18, 2009 Reading My Life - 12:55 p.m. , Saturday, Sept. 12, 2009 
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