Re-creating what someone else had no right to delete

For those who've followed the overnight drama at M.O.B., I did (as always) save a copy of my edit of Jaye's idiotic post. I never mentioned her name in my birfday whine-a-thon, but her paranoia saw it another way. And if I'm going to post her idiocy here for all to see how she REALLY viewed me (however errant that perspective may be), y'all are going to get to see MY RESPONSE, despite her chickenshit overnight DELETION of same. In perpetuity, unable to be deleted by anyone BUT ME.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sunday, October 05, 2008

bite me or here is where I use your blog to tell you off and apologize at the same time? conflicted, moi?

This "post" has been relocted to the Storage Unit, though it should never have been posted at all.

Mark of the Beast is supposed to be the ANTITHESIS of all back-stabbing, insecure-middle-aged batshit-crazies, amateur-shrinks-without-the-accreditation, hormonal-flux issues locations.

I.E. I don't fucking do "cat fights," those are for cheap '50s soft-core porn, Springer, and other assorted white trash. You got something to say to me, say it to me in private. I used no names in my birfday post, you took it upon yourself to embarrass us both by posting this horseshit HERE. If you can't handle the fucking truth, that you are just as, if not moreso, mentally/emotionally/psychologically fucked-up as me, then who in the fuck are you to get on MY fucking blog and WASTE THE WHOLE FUCKING FRONT PAGE preaching to the fucking cheap seats? I don't come to your fucking blog and piss in all four corners of the room, and you're not going to climb up on your fucking cross and play the martyr who "only CARES about you" bullshit HERE.

You threw me away. Your immediate reply, when I spoke to you of depression that I've been battling for a YEAR, and handling pretty damned well, if people are to believe YOUR condescending portrait of me, and it was TOO FUCKING MUCH TO ASK OF YOU, TO SIMPLY FUCKING LISTEN. All of my other friends can manage that, and most of them do a helluva lot more, like not HOLDING IT AGAINST ME WHEN I ASK THEM TO LISTEN. You treated me the way your snotty old rich-bitch friend (who obviously has more in common with you than I ever will) TREATS HER ILLEGAL-ALIEN HOUSEKEEPER --- how fucking DARE I waste YOUR precious billable hours (oops, wait, can't bill legal rates yet, huh, but you know how to give ME a career back, you betcha!), how fucking DARE I EXPECT YOU TO DO FOR ME WHAT I'VE DONE FOR YOU, AND IN HUGE FUCKING SPADES.

I never asked you to come here to "take care" of me or "watch over" me, BECAUSE I'M NOT A FUCKING CHILD. I offered you my minuscule hovel of an apartment during Ike, so spare me the martyrdom of landscaping. I was trying to save your life, not REMODEL IT TO RESEMBLE MY OWN, which, apparently, is the only "acceptable" way to act around my "betters" like you, right?

Tell that to the community college kids, they might buy it.

See, that's not a "cat fight," that's a fuck-off and keep going. You want to pretend that your dying brain makes no difference in your life, you lock everybody who cares for you OUT OF YOUR ENTIRE SPHERE, because you wanna pretend like you're NOT GONNA DIE, like it's not even a POSSIBILITY, so instead, you take it upon yourself to tell ME that I deserve nothing more than TO BE INCARCERATED IN A STATE MENTAL HOSPITAL. You need to study your Louisiana history for a change, pumpkin, 'cause no, Uncle Earl DIDN'T fucking "enjoy" imprisonment, he loathed it every bit as much as every other unjustly-imprisoned person does. Look it the fuck up.

I hate putting shit like this on my blog. That's why I invented the storage facility. But you had to drag this shit out here, to waste page space that could be SO much better used (see how I did my post at the storage unit? Yeah, that's 'cause there are OTHER PEOPLE WHO MIGHT HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO SAY), when there's more important shit going on than your hissy-fits. I realize that MY hissy-fits aren't universally understood, or even universally entertaining. That's why I built the Storage Unit. This shit you puked-up here tonight, I don't think will even be THAT. You used to be so good, but now, I wonder what I ever saw. Maybe it's just the brain damage, maybe it's menopause, maybe it's your whole bipolar PTSD world, who knows.

But you picked a fight with the wrong fucking bitch. I didn't pick a fight with you, I was explaining how fucked-up my year has been and why I haven't devoted my entire energies to the blog or to politics or to much other than recovering from spine surgeries and trying to avoid a neck surgery. If you don't get that, if you truly think that it IS all about "you," then there's really nothing else to talk about. Not everybody in this world wants a "mommy" or "daddy" to "take care of them" because they don't want to take care of THEMSELVES. Maybe that works for you, but most of us out here, down on the ground, not up on the suburbanite hills, need our FREEDOM and ADULTHOOD, not to be told that our issues or our sadness deserves no compassion, only incarceration. You made it pretty fucking plain that I don't mean a fucking thing to you, so why can't you just let it go?