2002-10-21 - 1:29 a.m.

Obviously I didn�t disregard your letter, Anna. In fact, your letter made me feel guilty and sad and guilty and sad all day, as it was designed to do. I know it wasn�t meant entirely for me, either, and of course I�m not dragging the other person into it. But you wrote what you wrote cause you got cornered. And you replied with an attack, the best way you know how--say the things people don�t want said out loud.

That�s fine--that�s just you. I�m used to it. Your letter was well written and pointed out some things about me which need to change. Of course I get it.

I am, however, massively pissed off at you for then deciding to frame your letter with alphabet magnets on the gigantic fridge which is diaryland, for all to see.

That proud of your Psych 202 four page paper, eh? Eh? Look what I can do!

Did you read it before posting it? Did you think that maybe there were some things that I didn�t really want people casually perusing?

Let me put it this way--do you know how many fucking times I�ve struggled to, and succeeded at, holding my tongue, rather than posting something that would sincerely cast you in a negative light, or hurt you? Huh? Do you fucking know?

Fuck that �writing what you feel� bullshit. Fuck that �this journal is a record of my life� bullshit, too. Either you�re pissed at me--for whatever reason I don�t know, or you don�t fucking truly give a damn enough to leave personal matters between your �friends� and your own fucking diary-ego separate.

I can�t fucking believe you. I mean, I just cannot fucking believe you. I am so fucking pissed at you, you wouldn�t even know.

I�ve shown you so much respect, and exercised so much restraint when it has come to our personal lives, writing here. I pretty much show everyone the same amount of respect and restraint on diaryland.

We all owe that to each other.

You? I�m whatever you need to blame your own depression on. Your saga was a needy tragedy where I, although of course not the main character, and where, of course, you measured out sprinkles of positive examples (to maintain credibility), was the source of most of your own problems, and the solution to nothing.

You think that didn�t irk me a little? A daily dose of the incredible amount of pain I caused you over the years, from the singular-minded point of view of the victim, where your facts weren�t even straight?

And every day, reading this, wanting to correct you?

And every day, reading this, wanting to mention the fifteen awesome things I did in the space between the ultimate betrayals I effortlessly tossed your way each and every morning?

And every day, reading this, giving you your space. Every day, wanting to explain why I behaved in such a way. Every day, wishing I could add a side note--well, that�s also where she did this thing that hurt me.

You gave me a hard time for having gone to Catholic school, but I wish you knew what �forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us� actually means.

How are you doing, by the way? Have you rolled your eyes yet? Are you skimming this, waiting for the end, wondering how to play it? A neverending supply of rebuttals on your fingertips, frustrated that you�re reading this, and can�t interrupt the speaker?

Oh--I should mention this. Your fucking sycophantic diary support group can all fucking die in a freak group hug accident, and as far as I�m fucking concerned, you�re a fucking bitch.

Yeah--you are a fucking bitch a fucking bitch a fucking bitch.

Yeah--I�m writing what I feel right now. I�m following your advice.

This is what I feel at the moment, and I should record this, so that later generations can enjoy my brilliance.

And yeah--this is what it feels like when someone wants to make you feel bad, on purpose, in front of others. This is what it feels like when someone wants to make things hurt. This is what it feels like to be on the receiving end.

This is what it feels like when someone is pushed to the point of not caring if he makes matters worse.

What did I do to deserve you fucking dragging my name through the mud, online, in a place that all of my fucking friends read?

Did I not fucking carry you home? Did I not take care of you when you moronically decided to get hammered beyond all help in ANOTHER FUCKING STATE? Carry you back while you screamed into my ear--�you HATE me, you�re just taking care of me because you hate me, you can�t stand to be around me, you just feel sorry for me,� is that what I did to piss you off?

Did I not buy you a cheeseburger, and a bottled water? Did I not sit on the base of a stature and comfort you as you settled into your drunk routine of making me feel like the biggest bastard ever? Did I bring this upon myself?

On the bus, wanting desperately to sleep, sitting next to you, did I not roll my head away from you and pretend to be asleep, and let you stroke my hair, and give you what you wanted, and when it wasn�t enough, while you quietly, loudly, quietly, and oh-so-loudly sobbed, did I not suddenly get up and ask you questions about music, to keep you from feeling sad?

Yeah, I�m a fucking asshole, all the way. Everything I do is annoying. It�s really hard to fucking put up with me, and I can be really fucking grating. It�s OK to yell at me.

Anna? I�m not pissed at what you wrote about me. I�m fucking fucking SO FUCKING PISSED AT WHERE YOU FUCKING POSTED IT.

Yeah, I just don�t get it, do I?

Nice retraction, by the way. First you post a fucking e-mail you wrote, supposedly in confidence, on your fucking diary.

Then, when I make the first stink over anything you�ve ever written about me, you flip out, delete the post, and write another entry which is twice as rude, where you reiterate all the fucking shit I asked you to remove in the first place.

And you KNOW that I�m not going to do anything about it. So many times, I�ve hovered that finger right over the trigger. And relaxed my hand.

Speaking of hand, I can�t believe that I�m fucking falling with you. Usually, when you want to drag me down to your world, I let go of your hand and watch you fall, and wince at the ugly mess you�ve created on the pavement, and I�m friggin coated in your blood.

And for the record, when you decided let�s have a fight, I was in the bathroom and didn�t hear you. That�s hardly democratic, is it?

I�ve been pissed about this for hours now. I mean, I�m still steaming.

I�m fucking sick of letting you get away with trashing me on-line, or otherwise for that matter. I mean, you�re just so fucking selfish, self-centered, and fucking self-righteous, and I never fucking say anything about it, �cause I know it would hurt you. �Cause I know it would damage things. �Cause I know it would do no good. �Cause I know you�d just take it as affront, and defend, not listen.

Do you know what you do whenever anyone challenges your precious notion that you�ve got everything under control in your life, and that you�re so far advanced that you can actually truly know what�s best for everyone else? Do you know what you do when someone accuses whatever might have just recently occurred to you (which, at the time, is always something you feel strongly about) as being anything less than brilliant?

You cower, attack, cower and then attack attack attack. Change the subject to a completely unrelated flaw in the accuser.

If things get bad, if you know you�re losing, when you know you�re beaten, you cry.

Who�se gonna press charges against a 10-year-old for stealing their wallet? Who�se gonna wage war with a 95-year-old man for insulting them on the street?

Me? No.

Who�se gonna take abuse abuse abuse from someone you try so hard to work things out with? Me? Yup.

When you take care of that person to the best of your ability when you�re needed, when you make the effort to retain a friendship, and then get attacked from outta nowhere, you should probably say something about it, I guess.

OK--get your rebuttals ready, Anna. I�m sure you have about fifteen mistakes I�ve made, ready to mention.

Yeah, the shame and out-of-context tale will most certainly prevent me from retaliating.

I tried so hard to stay out of this one, and you fucking dragged me in. Audience. What�s a fucking argument without a witness?

For all your blessed and fearsome debate skills, though, I bet you�ve never had an argument in your life.

You have to listen to have one of those.

But you never have to do that, do you? Not when you can scream louder. Not when you can form allies and draw treaties like a pro. Not when you can make anyone and everyone feel like shit just by blinking. Not when you can win without trying, �cause you�ve beaten everyone you know so many times that they won�t even play anymore--they won�t fight back.

You can draw first, and you shoot to kill, even if it�s a fucking kid with a water pistol who isn�t even aiming at you.

So go ahead and post this e-mail, sent in confidence to you, to your diary. Go ahead--it�s what you want anyway. Vindication. The peanut gallery is gonna love this one. Maximum entertainment. The finest of all victories. The last word is the best word.

You fucking won. I�m taking my baseball and going home to play nintendo.