To the Linguistically and Cognitively Challenged Douchebag from Yesterday

I can understand that for someone stuck mentally in the 1990s, general namecalling would be the go-to mechanism when stuck in an argument that they cannot win. This is, however, 2016, and you’re expected to act your physical age, or at least pretend to be on board with the whole being an adult thing even if you don’t actually understand it.

Here’s a simple flowchart that you can refer to when you’re in an argument with someone who has, unlike you, aged mentally.

You’re welcome. Metaphorically speaking, of course – lest you assume I’m telling you it’s ok to return here. It’s not.

Did you see the troll at work yesterday? Are all of them this deranged, or did I win a special lottery? What’s your troll story?

of one night in McLeod

It’s dark and it’s raining outside. Everyone’s gone out and the two of us are alone in the room.

He’s just a stranger and he’s too close for comfort. I act busy but I know he’s watching me, like a predator. The tension is obvious. My heart is thumping in my chest. I’m going weak in the knees thinking of what’s about to happen in the next few minutes.

Maybe nothing will happen if I just get up and move to another room. But part of me wants to find out what happens if I stay. But I know this isn’t right and I must do something to stop it. But do I have the courage to do… Anything?

He finally makes his first move, and I make mine. It’s like a dance, we both know the rhythm. I have been in this situation before. The goosebumps, nervous excitement, dry throat; the inability to move – this is all too familiar.

of ghosts and stuff

After my landlord stole my denim bra, I was house hunting again. I found a beautiful apartment on the ground floor of a small building that had been converted into a number of small, one bedroom apartments. It was perfect, but people warned me against moving in, because a girl had been murdered in that house. They said it was haunted.

I didn’t really believe them, because:

A. I didn’t want to, and

B. I didn’t want to

(Seriously, ghosts and stuff belong only in the DeadMau5 universe.)

Soon after I moved in, I started feeling like something about the house was wrong. I sought solace in wine and feverish lovemaking with Mister at first, but then the noises became too much and I had to start paying attention to them.

Mister suggested I keep a diary of all paranormal activity – though in my case there were only noises that seemed to come from within the walls. I did. 

of stories

She seems confused. She talks about women, then talks about adventure. She’s seduced people, almost cheated on her boyfriend, been in a live-in relationship, by her own admission. What kind of person puts stuff like that on the internet? I don’t get personal blogging anyway. Why not just stick to a topic and blog about that? What does it matter whether you tell your story or not? Who cares?

She’s talking incessantly about me, without even knowing that she’s talking about me. To her I’m Anawnimiss, the ‘ridiculously shameless blogger’.

It was amusing at first, to listen to someone I know talk about my blog without realizing it’s mine. But then words started to sting. And yet I was quiet for the longest time, nodding my head, which is so unlike me.

I wanted to tell her that my story matters. Every story matters, because stories never belong to any one person. There are hundreds of people, women and men, just like me, with stories just like mine. They are traveling, dancing, getting married, having children, yearning for change, just like me. There are women who are just like me, looking for answers, looking for love, and for independence. There’s a common thread in all our stories that binds us all in a sort of fabric that keeps us warm.

Instead, I say: I don’t know, maybe sharing gives her strength.

Yeah right. What is she, Batman? Let her come out in the open and declare her real identity. Then I’ll see how much strength she really has to tell the truth.

Okay, she didn’t really say Batman, but you know what I mean.

But she’s right, you know. I really ought to come out in the open some day. And you know what, I’d like to see the look on her face when I do.

of how I met the Mister

I tucked my right arm behind my back and lifted my left arm up to a 90 degree angle to the rest of my body and asked: Ma’am, may I go to drink water in a sing song tone. If you’re Indian or have been to school in India, you know what I’m talking about.

Yes, but come back quickly. 

I collected the gate pass and walked clumsily to the water cooler that was at the end of the corridor, my grey divided skirt swinging from side to side as I walked. As I approached the water cooler, I saw him. I nearly peed in my panties out of nervousness.