Jack

We tend to make the dead into heroes they never were.  And, largely, our dog Jack was a pain in the ass.  He was constantly barking for us to feed him: we joked that he had Prader-willi syndrome: a bizarre human illness that manifests itself in never feeling full.  It must be a horrible disease to truly have: parents end up padlocking cabinets and refrigerators from children who suffer from this.  If Jack had paws that gripped, we’d have had to do the same thing.

Allegedly, I enabled Jack.  Whenever he barked, as the story goes, I fed him.  This is a bit of an exaggeration, though not much of one.  When he was small, I would get up twice in the middle of the night (yes twice) to feed him because I’d convinced myself that he had “low blood sugar.”  I concluded this based on nothing.  I felt he told me this with his expressive eyes.  One day Diane turned to me and said, “He has you so fooled.”  From then on, I only woke ONCE in the middle of the night, probably something I didn’t need to do either.  I guess I remained a fool/ enabler.

Part of this was because he was hard to resist.  We forced his cuteness on people, making them admit things like he was “the cutest dog [they’d] ever seen.”  He was always so happy that he made other people happy.  His tail would wag so fast that I would wonder: 1) how it was that anything could be so happy, and 2) what was there to be so happy about?  I remember being sent home early from work on 9/11.  Who was the only thing smiling that day?  Jack.  I guess he was just glad to see me.

He wasn’t just cute, he was a true hero.  And we knew this during his life, not after his death.  This is because on an average morning in 2008, with two leashless and hungry pitbulls facing Diane, Jack leapt in front of her to sacrifice himself and protect his pack, in this case a pack of one: Diane.

I can still hear Diane’s scream as I reached for my other shoe in the closet on that morning.  Without successfully grabbing it, I ran outside and instinctively scooped Jack up in my hands.  Because of the one shoe, I awkwardly ran to my neighbor’s house who rushed us to the emergency animal hospital.

In sacrificing himself, the pitbulls had peeled Jack’s skin like the outside of an orange.  His condition was touch-and-go, but one month and thousands of dollars later, Jack was back home and, almost, as good as new.

But Jack wasn’t as good as new even before the attack: he was a medical lemon. His file at the Marina Del Rey vet’s office was—quite literally—the thickest one they had.  (The vet said it wasn’t right when the file weighs more than the patient).

Always smiling (truly) and hungry, Jack developed every affliction that yorkies are known to get, and then some.  As a baby, he had major surgery on his liver because of his liver shunt.  He was on special food for his entire life.  He developed an enlarged heart, joint problems, cataracts, skin allergies, various benign tumors, and had to have his system flushed from having eaten grapes (our fault: not inherited).  Oh, he was also born with double teeth.  While under sedation for the liver, the doctor plucked out a row at no cost to us.  In the end, what made his life unbearable was a collapsed trachea.  The specialist said it was the worst she’d ever seen.   By the end of his life, we were spending at least $100 a month on his nine different medications and he had to get a semi-annual echocardiogram which was no fun to pay for either.   In tallying up his bill, it seems he owes us just over $34,000.  (Yes, this is a guess).

Here’s a little bit about our guy that almost made him worth the money: Jack loved to lick, especially our feet.  He loved to protect his family.  As noted before, he loved to eat.  I envied his (and most dogs’) easy happiness.  He added fun and love to our family.

Just a few highlights we’ll always remember…

• The day we got him I lay the floor and he jumped all over me.  He was like a black cotton ball.  
• Taking him to a 5-star hotel in San Diego and seeing him prance around like he owned the place
• The day Jack found (and luxuriated in) our neighbor’s 10-pound bag of dogfood (jack crapped and vomited for days thereafter).
• Seeing him fall asleep with a stuffed animal lodged in his mouth.
• Taking him to work with me at a Santa Monica office and having Kevin Nealon pet him.  
• Joking that Jack was in love with his female vet only to have her literally comment, “I think he’s flirting with me!” to which Diane and I cracked up.  
• Coming up with millions of nicknames for him.  We used to keep a list and there are too many to remember: Bob Crane the fat hen & Crazy licker pup are two that pop in my mind.  His lifelong nickname, though, was simply “Pie.”  We called him Pie just as much as we called him Jack.  
• Having him escape a closed-in area while Diane was working with a client.  The client didn’t just get to see Jack run through the house, the client got to see Jack run through the house with a pair of my underpants in his mouth…
• Jack’s instinctual love and protection of Bryan.

The day we got Jack from the horrible lemon breeder, he was six-weeks old.  The lady with large glasses had bathed him before we came, so she handed him to me wrapped in a towel.  “We’ll take good care of him,” I promised, presuming that she’d care.

Instead, I should have directed my comment to him.   “We’ll take good care of you, Jack,” I should have told him.  And, if he could speak he’d have promised the same thing to us.

Despite not having this exchange, this is exactly what happened: we took care of Jack just as much as he took care of us.  What a dog.    

Look back at those pics... he really was the cutest dog ever.  Am I right or am I right?...

An Unlikely Tour Guide

Dear Visitor to Planet Earth:

I’m happy the Big Black Woman in the Sky assigned me as your tour guide, even if by default.  Unfortunately for you, Julie from Love Boat was NoWheretobeFound  (NWtbF or MIA) (Perhaps somewhere around Seattle…).  She would definitely have had an element of Perkiness (and pleasantry) that I don’t.

The next choice for Alien Ambassador was Oprah, who could have eloquently clued you in on many a’ life lesson, but she’s busy realizing she should never have given up her talk show and started a dumb network.  Turns out, this realization is taking her quite the while (QTW)! 

Third in line to tour you around our Endangered Lands was Gene Wilder, but he just wanted to introduce you to all kinds of candy and this might have given you the Misimpression that everything in these parts is Sweet, (aka it ain’t).  Additionally, he had a hair appointment. 

Because every other human being on the face of the Earth (FOTE) was asked to chaperone you and all declined, my version of God then turned to me.  I felt bad for you and didn’t want you to return back to your planet without any kernels of earth knowledge… souvenirs per se-- 

Today I thought I’d indoctrinate you to what we on Earth like refer to as a little thing called an Amusement Park.   Just to prepare you, it will basically be an overpriced, overcrowded space where parents walk their children around on pseudo leashes masked as backpacks, and even if you get there right when “the park” opens, the bathrooms will (somehow) already be filthy.  

This is the Big Picture, as it were.   The rest are merely details. 

I ain’t no Oprah, but today as we go around, I’d like to share with you my own little Bits o’  Wisdom about life here on Earth.    

First things first: no matter where you go on the planet, someone is always sweeping something.  Either sweeping or vacuuming or waxing supermarket floors or blowing f-ing leaves near a door you need to enter.  These are all, largely, Interchangeable Occurrences (except the leaf blower adds a Loudness Factor that makes it particularly enticing). 

Currently, as you can see, this person with the oversized, rectangular broom is half-assedly pushing a glorious mixture of garbage, dirt, and water right near my feet, with no acknowledgement or concern that I would prefer that this blend of shit and debris not decorate my shoes, no matter how unlovely they might be.

Because Mr. and Mrs. Slow Family (who didn’t feel like lingering in the Costco aisle today) insist on, instead, lingering smack dab in the middle of Amusement Park Way, there’s no real room to escape the unpleasantry of the large, dirty broom pushing the trash near our feet.  Odds are you will not end up not getting crap on your any of your three shoes, but the worry of It All, and the Lack of Space, and the Unmaneuverability around the Costco Bunch, is just the beginning of the Amusement in the Park. 

Another Fun Fact regarding the Beauty of the AP (we humans like acronyms) is its unnerving similarity to that DMV place I was telling you about.  

First notice the 3-hours-long-line filled with hot people (not in the cute sense) stretched around the corner, waiting for the 23-second ride.  Next, cast your gaze on the employee in charge of helping people in and out of the roller coaster cars.  Notice how she’s in absolutely no hurry At All (ANHAA).  See how she chats with the little children and fixes her hair and checks her phone.  Watch how she converses with the Maintenance Guy (these rides could break at any moment: fyi, they are life-threatening, to add to the Happiness of it All) and kindly finishes her conversation, adding a coy smile before she trudges over, carefully, to get the next group of people to enter the potential last ride of their lives.  Yes, she could go through this line in half the time if she’d only wait to apply her lipstick until after the shift.  Thing is, she worries about the risks of melanoma and convinces herself the gloss (in addition to being lovely) is ample protection. 

Let’s saunter over to the Snack Shack, Shall we?  Yes, the hot dog is $8.00 and, indeed, the drink is 5 more (yes, the small).  We here in the P.E. (Planet Earth) have a little phenom called “HA!  YOU”RE TRAPPED!” aka (HYT).  This injustice is most visible in places like parks of amusement, airports, stores in hotels, and small pharmacies.   When you go to pay for your LOI (largely overpriced item) the sales clerk isn’t even kind enough to share that knowing glance that the both of you know that you are LBRO.  Largely Being Ripped Off!  You see, to acknowledge the injustice would mean that the salesclerk realizes that he or she is participating in it, and that is just too much honesty on Earth (TMHOE). 

What are you doing?  You want to go home?  But there’s so much more to show you!  This is the Happiest Place on Earth.  If you’re not happy here, I have no f-ing idea what to show you.  Also, don’t leave before going on a ride!  Yes—the one over there.  How does it work?. You stand on it, they saunter over to strap you in, and it goes 73 miles in the air and flips you over and over until your stomach plummets back down sans your body (a little thing we like to call gravity). 

Wait!  Don’t fly away!  Come back!  Don’t just climb back on that Spaceship!  Get back on the horse.  Don’t leave me here!  I’m coming with you—what’s it like there, anyway--WAIT_____________

Are they really FRIENDS?

Are these really friends, these WWF associates who beat you shamelessly time and time again, only to keep challenging you to further wording duels with merely one goal in mind: to cement your level of embarrassment?  Aren’t these truly (by definition) enemies (a real word, by the way), these alleged wordsmiths, and (come on!) shouldn’t it rather be called the WWE(nemies), instead of F?  Am I a masochist for continually agreeing to lose AGAIN?  (Hit me some more!)

The challenge I choose to embrace is not whether or not I can successfully place my Z in a triple-word square or whether I can find a use for a J at the end of an existing word and use it to begin my new word.  Nor do I choose to define myself by how many successive games I am miraculously able to lose! (Lookout Guinness!)

(does this lady just casually walk in for a manicure to places that accept walk-ins?)

…the real challenge I find is how to incorporate these pseudo/bizzaro words that WWF has blessed as acceptable into real life—namely, mine. 

In the next week, I hope to use the following “words”...

1.     QI means… apparently it’s a variant of “chi.”  It doesn’t even have it’s own definition!  Instead, the online dictionary only defines it’s “variant,” CHI. Definition of CHI: vital energy that is held to animate the body internally and is of central importance in some Eastern systems of medical treatment (as acupuncture) and of exercise or self-defense (as tai chi) Variants of CHI chi or ch'i also qi Origin of CHI Ch (Beijing) qì, literally, air, breath.  First Known Use: 1850. 

How I plan to use it: don’t mess with my QI.  OR, Can I get a grilled QI sandwich? Or, my brother’s fraternity was called Theta-Qi.

2.     Definition of AG (adjective) : of or relating to agriculture <ag schools> First Known Use of AG circa 1918

How I plan to use it: “Because I have a blue thumb, and the 99cent store plant my student got me died the same day she gave it to me (after it had been transPLANTED to my care), I would never pursue AG study.

3.     Op is short for optical art and also... abbr operation; operative; operator, operation, opus.

My near-future use: “I’m having an awesome op today!”  I hope the listener understands my intended meaning: I’m scheduled for a hysterectomy.  You see, to me, never having my period again would be awesome!  What an OPportunity!"
"

4.     Gan is passed tense of GIN, which is short for begin. 

My use: “It wasn’t long after my WWE’s game GAN that I GAN to lose.”

5.     Jane: Slang chiefly US a girl or woman.

My intended use: “Did she have a John or a Jane?”

There are more weird words I’ve discovered in the week and a half I’ve GIN to play WWE.  There’s lee and jo and da and ed and ne and zig and zag (not zigzag.  These are separate).

I’m too lazy to look them all up now because this jane OPts to GIN her AG so I don’t ‘sturb my QI.
 

I also don’t want to look them up now because it’s about that time to return to my newest addiction…  

ABA: Addiction, Bullying, and Abuse: Who's To Blame

A couple of months ago, a colleague of mine walked passed the little autistic boy at our school, “Ben.”  She saw what was going on—that he was being bullied.  She watched how NonAutistic kids, Normal Kids, Kids with Power, circled around him and pointed and laughed and mocked him.  She made it her business.  She intervened.  Here’s what she did: she talked to…

1)   the students who tormented him

2)   the young man in charge of the after-school program

3)  our principal

4)  Ben’s teacher

Weeks later, Ben’s face got bloodied and bruised from bullying during that same after-school program.  She said she felt like Joe Paterno.  What if Ben’d been killed?  No, not dramatic: shit like this happens.

Before all this, I had jumped on the “Joe Must Go” bandwagon.  F-him.  He KNEW about it?  Then I learned of my colleague’s experience and it somehow made sense to me that Joe Paterno must have (mistakenly) trusted that after having talked to his Supervisor, some sort of investigation must have Happened, and it must have been determined that everything was OKAY.  Joe Paterno must have trusted that People in Power took the Responsibility they were Supposed to.  These people get Big Bucks for taking Responsibility.  (They even get big bucks when they don’t.)

My colleague/friend had also mistakenly trusted that things would Work Themselves Out after having relayed information to so many people, including the Head of our School.  They didn’t.  While Blatant Bullying of Ben has (apparently) ceased, just yesterday the Biggest Bully of them all (a little sociopathic twerp) stole Ben’s ball and kicked it over the fence.  I stuck my head in AGAIN.  I told the young man in charge of the program that it was time to kick out the Biggest Bully of Them All because he didn’t deserve the opportunity to get to play freely on the yard.  I have no idea what will happen.  I’m not the Young Man’s Supervisor.  I’m just trying to Intervene. 

I’m embarrassed to admit, that I also jumped on the Fire Everyone at Miramonte! Bandwagon, initially. Somebody had to know Something!  F them all!  Shame on them!  But after all I see going on right before my eyes at my own school, I realize how possible it is that some teachers did express concerns about the Pedophile to their supervisor.  After having done so, teachers must have trusted that People in Power took the Responsibility they were supposed to and Investigated Properly.

What are we teachers expected to do?  Should we bypass our Supervisors and call the police?  I’m tempted to call them for the bullying episodes.  But I’m not in charge and I don’t get the big bucks that go along with it, either.   What’s happening is that people who should be taking responsibility, often aren’t.  It’s easier not to.  It’s easier to live life, I guess, wrongly hoping that things will Work Themselves Out.

The other night at a school function for my son, my partner and I were saddened to notice that a mother of one of the kids in his class was drunk off her ass.  We felt it necessary to talk to people at the school—a responsible teacher who would tell the principal.  Was the drunk mom driving her kid home?  After having talking to a Teacher we Trust, we let go of the situation.  What were we supposed to do, call the police?

It was sad, though, to think of the little girl in our son’s class.  She needs someone to Intervene too.  She needs someone to take Responsibility.  I had flashes of the children of alcoholics I know.  Sadly, who knows when and if such an intervention will take place for my son’s classmate.  Her probable childhood experience also flashes through my mind.  

Whitney Houston And (probably) many of her doctors who perhaps Freely wrote many a prescription for this notable Addict,  as well as the Bullies at my school and their Parents, and Those in Charge at Places of Education, and Alcoholic Parents are largely the ones not taking Responsibility for all of the Sh*t that’s going on.  Taking Responsibility is hard but Must be Done.  

By Removing the entire staff at Miramonte Elementary, our Superintendant tried to show that he was Doing Something.  For that, I don’t fault him.  What he did was Entirely Wrong, but at least he acted.  Hopefully, he will realize or remember, that the tone of a school, an organization, a family is set by those in Charge.  Us underlings Do the Best We Can.  The tail can only wag the dog so hard and for so long.  All these wrongs need to be righted by those who have the Power to do so.  

I WILL INTERVENE, WILL YOU JOIN ME?

I want to start a revolution, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  I want to start a revolution, and I’m not Tracy Chapman.  I want to start a revolution.

(not me.  although I think we play on the same team.)

This school has a “No-Tolerance” Bullying “Policy,”

That school has a “No-Tolerance” Bullying “Policy.”

This organization has a “No-Tolerance” Bullying “Policy,”

That organization has a “No-Tolerance” Bullying “Policy.”

But, there’re a few problems. 

One: it’s merely a Policy.  Think about it.

Two: An organization is only as strong as its people. It’s really only as strong as its weakest person. 

Think of the weakest person you know.  Do you want something as important as an Anti-Bullying Policy to be left in the hands of this person?  Sigh.  If you only knew who I was picturing…  

There’s something inherently wrong with leaving the task of protecting our most vulnerable to any Organization’s Policy.

What am I talkin’ ‘bout?  A revolution.

Once upon a time, THIS WEEK, there was a Little Autistic Boy.  We’ll call him Ben.  The fact that Ben happens to be utterly adorable seems unimportant, but I feel compelled to toss it in.  Anyway, turns out, Ben has been bullied at my Happy Little Elementary School for Weeks on End.  But, you ask, Don’t you have an ANTI BULLYING POLICY?  Of course.  Also, Don’t you have a Fantastic Little School?  Yes, mostly.  Aren’t many of the teachers at your school unbelievably perceptive, caring, and good at what they do?  Indeed.  Isn’t your principal pretty good?  Well… yeeeees… And what about your assistant principal?  Don’t you say she walks on water?  I do. 

What happened, you ask?

It’s a Policy run by People, remember?  Imagine an unenforced policy in the hands of the weakest person you know and, well, little Ben gets taunted continually and, oh yeah, eventually beaten up.  Kids circle around and point at him.  They mimic him.  They have no understanding or appreciation for the fact that he has autism.  The kids rally around each other: they’ve found a common enemy!  It’s 50-pound Ben!  How Cool These Kids Are!  How Powerful!  What a Fantastic Common Enemy!  Let’s HURT BEN!

Policies can work, but sometimes don’t.  Organizations can be mostly strong, but not completely. 

Bullying is personal. 

Kids need to know that someone will DO something. 

Here’s my revolution: it’s the I WILL INTERVENE Coalition.  It’s not that my SCHOOL has an anti-bullying policy, it’s that I have an anti-bullying Commitment.  And I am not weak and I am not a policy.

 

What does this mean?  This means that I will keep my eyes and ears open.  I will be a safe place for a victim to go.  I will put my nose where it might not belong.  I will make any bullying MY BUSINESS.  I will inform whoever needs to be informed of any potential bullying situation.  If those “in charge” do not handle the situation, I will report it to the police. 

If this somehow became huge, then our coalition would be monumentally more powerful than any bully or any group of bullies.  Kids also need to identify themselves as “interveners.” 

It’s easy to look away.  It’s easy to make it someone else’s problem.  It’s easy to want to assume that a situation can rectify itself and that Kids Will Be Kids.  It’s easy to just figure or hope that anti-bullying policies are working.  Maybe some are, don’t know.  You know what’s not so easy?  Seeing Ben’s beaten-up face.  Picture the most innocent-looking kid you know with his face beaten up.  Meet Ben. 

And, guess what?  Ben’s parents don’t even advocate for him!  Know why?  Kids Will Be Kids, I guess?  They’re too busy?  Didn’t notice?  Don’t care?  I HAVE NO IDEA!

If they won’t, I will.  I WILL INTERVENE.  Will you?

I want to start a revolution, will you help?  

An Excerpt

Something all the books tell you not to do: post an excerpt of your own book.  Not one to follow the rules.  I've been working on this so long, I need to let part of it out.  In this excerpt, a friend of the main character explains what happened the night her brother, mother, and father died.  

“We’d just come back from ice-skating.  We had a great time.  Like a normal family, not like a poor family from Nebraska who’d run away from a drunken asshole.   A Hallmark card that day.  Keith was really good on the ice, he was always really coordinated.  Mom looked like she had some sort of physical disability while she tried to skate and we kept laughing at her.   But Keith kept trying to help her, which was a disaster.  It was like trying to save someone who’s drowning: how they both die.  He told us what you said.  About whole families disappearing under the ice.  We laughed about that a lot.  We imagined them living under the ice, frozen.  They lived underground in frozen houses.  They watched a frozen T.V. and ate frozen T.V. dinners.  We kept telling each other we were going to disappear under the ice forever, just like you worried about. 

“On the way home we stopped to get a box of hot chocolate and marshmallows.  Keith wanted the little ones and I wanted the big ones and Mom decided to get me the big ones and I wish he would’ve gotten what he wanted.  That’s a lot of what I think about.  I’m glad Starbucks doesn’t have marshmallows because I can’t look at them anymore.

 “Everything seemed normal in front of the apartment.  Keith had been looking for my dad’s truck for the past couple of weeks; he didn’t tell me this, I could just tell.  We knew each other like that.   But as the holiday grew closer and closer, it was pretty obvious we were all on the lookout.

“I can’t say my dad was a total idiot because he parked around the side of the block, so maybe he did have a brain cell.  We were too happy and excited (and cold) for our hot chocolate to look carefully for his truck.  Mom didn’t think he had Aunt Casey’s address anyway and I think we all thought he was too dumb to figure it out.

“He did, though.  There he was.  He sat inside the apartment, in the dark, holding an oversized can of beer in one hand and a shotgun in the other.  He said, ‘Merry Fuckin’ Christmas, pack your shit, we’re leavin’.’  Keith grabbed the shovel to the fireplace and told me to go to our room.  I couldn’t move and then he yelled it in my face: ‘Go!’ It was a yell out of love, not one that my dad would do.  But it’s funny how both kinds of yells can sound the same.  I pretended to go to our room but I grabbed the biggest knife I could find in the kitchen and climbed on to the rafters of the ceiling.  I thought I’d jump on my dad if I needed to. 

“I don’t know.  Mom and Keith were telling him to leave.  Mom tried to reason with him—it was better this way, doesn’t he realize?  Keith was yelling that he was going to kill him.  Dad was drunk and grabbed Mom by the hair, pulling her neck in an awful way.  Keith struck him in the side with the shovel, and then in the arm.  I think he tried to knock the gun out of his hand.  Dad hit him across the head with his rifle.  Mom picked up the shovel Keith dropped and whacked Dad in the balls.  He crouched over in pain and Keith came at him and knocked him to the floor.  That was amazing because Keith was, like, a tenth the size of my dad. Mom grabbed the shotgun and pointed it at Dad.  But they were no match for him.  He was such a fat motherfucker.  He grabbed the gun from her in a second.  He was so pissed off and drunk, he shot them instantaneously, like a knee-jerk reaction.  No real thought.  Pow, pow.  Like he was playing a video game.   That’s when I let go of the rafters and fell on him.”

Nicole drinks the vodka like it’s water.  She lights another cigarette.  “He threw me off of him and said to get my shit, little girl, and hurry the fuck up.”

“And then he shot himself?”

“He didn’t see the knife. I stabbed him in the ass, grabbed the shotgun and killed him.” 

Nicole looks out into the water.  It shines from nearby lights.  On this late April evening, other couples pepper the rocks.  Three, four maybe.  It’s the middle of the week.  Their talk is of love, of Spring, of the future.  Or, maybe, of killing their fathers.  Since my own life was turning out the way it was, there’s virtually nothing that surprises or shocks me.  Nothing is worthy of embarrassment, despite my latent adolescence.  What might only surprise me now, is life’s occasional predictability. 

“But the crazy thing is?” she gathers her cigarette butts.  She always picks them up off the ground.  She shoves them into her pockets and empties the pockets later.  She feels bad about leaving the ashes.  “Before the police came?” She lights the last one from the pack.  She takes her time to tell me.  “I made myself the hot chocolate.  I put in three marshmallows.  The big ones.  One for each of us.”

Dear Old Friend

Dear Old Friend,

As bizarre as it sounds, Facebook, merely a popular “social network,” has added a dimension to my life.  It’s hard to admit, as I mostly enjoy disliking anything that is too popular, like the Kardashians.  (But don’t you mess with my Dr. Phil.) Nevertheless, even in a life filled with wonderful family, good friends, and a great job, it’s warming to find a quick hello or a like to a post.  It can make the, still, sometimes lonely world a bit less so.

It was with, then, excited intentions that I contacted you, in hopes that I could add you to the list of people who throw out cyber hugs to me and to whom I reciprocate with such hugs.  So, I did.  I contacted you. 

I have memories of you.  Mostly of laughter.  Just so you know, as I now feel compelled to tell you, many people didn’t like you.  They called you a Snob and Shallow, but I didn’t find you as such.  I liked you. 

You and I and Others spent summers together in Wisconsin.  I loved these summers and I loved the people there, including you, and these summers were so wonderful and free and lovely. 

I told Another Old Friend, that I had found you on facebook and had she talked to you in recent years?  This Other Old Friend and I both contacted you at the same time.  I am quite certain that I know why you accepted her friend request and not mine.

The pictures of me and my Alternative Family Freaked You Out.  Yes, even in these days of Ellen Degenerous, Rosie O’Donnell, and Chastity Bono, you still find my “lifestyle” Vile and Disgusting.  Some may argue, “No, that’s not why she rejected you--.”  But we both know the truth, don’t we.

The world is changing and I am changing and People like You don’t have the Power to make me feel Vile and Disgusting anymore.  So don’t worry about having hurt my self-esteem.  I’m sure you’ve lost many nights’ sleep worrying about this too, but I’m officially informing you now that you can get Over It.

I want to be bigger than you and wish you a good life.  I want to say your rejection didn’t hurt.  The truth is, while I don’t wish you any harm, I also don’t necessarily wish you a good life.  This is because it did hurt.  While I’m just as valuable a human being as my straight peers, your rejection of me, due to something I can’t control, did hurt. 

Perhaps I should just cast it off as the Others were right: you are Snobby and Shallow.  I think, though, that this makes you get off too easy.  I still think these old friends were wrong: you weren’t Snobby and Shallow and this is precisely why your rejection stings.  Instead you perhaps were (and are) merely Mean Spirited and, for lack of something more creative to call you, a Bigot. 

And so, it is with Disappointment in Myself that I am Not Martin Luther King, Jr. or Mahatma Ghandi (sp?), who would instead Pray for your Fortitude (don’t know what that means, but it sounds right) that I feel compelled to forever leave you with two little words that I find necessary to utilize in times like these.

Fuck off.

Signed,

What?  Did you think I was in Love with You?  PLEASE!