To Whom It May Conern

Excuse me, condescending assholes: You have no right to speak to me the way you do. You are rude, you are nearsighted, and, frankly, stupid. You have no basis for the things you say. They are predicated on ignorance and insensitivity.

Next time, before you open your whiny mouth, think, "What will I gain from acting like a superior asshat in this situation?"

The answer is: nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Want to know why? Because I've already beaten you. I am so far ahead in every pertinent category that no matter how much bullshit you spew at me, you can never catch up. You are not more competent than I am; you are not more aware than I am; and you sure as hell aren't smarter than I am.

Perhaps you should consider the possibility--and I know this will sound crazy--that I am not the slow one in any given situation. Perhaps if there has been a miscommunication, misunderstanding, or something similar, it is you who has caused it. And before you mention that I am the only one who does not seem to [understand the way you speak/follow you logic/care about the tabloids/follow a strict diet/etc.], and therefore I must be the one in the wrong . . . no, sweetheart, that's not how it works. There are some stark differences in our backgrounds and cultures, and it would be ridiculous to assume that I would connect to anything and everything you offer up. (Moreover, you would not last a day with my people. You would embarrass yourself to no end. However, we would have better manners than to openly mock you for it.)

You are the problem. I do not say this to your face because I very much doubt it would have any effect on the way you conduct yourself. You are self-absorbed and eternally bent on being right. The day you take someone else's feelings and suggestions into account is the day hell freezes over.

My only consolation is that I will be subjected to you for a very short time, but you have to live with yourself forever.

You Call Yourself a Rebel

You call yourself a rebel

Purveyor of truth

An outcast by choice

You call yourself a victim

Trapped by conventions

Dying to break free

Funny how you mock me

Belittle all the

Things I have to say

Funny how it's not me

Screaming 'til I'm hoarse

So the Man backs down

Funny how that works, love

That you're feeling low

'Cause you're out place

Funny, when it all hit,

You turned and blamed me

For all that you'd done

Funny that I'm called weak

Utterly careless

The worst of the worst

When all I am is

Frightened and confused

Just trying to cope

In Which I Am a Stick in the Mud

Halloween is such an odd holiday to me. It seems like only yesterday we were celebrating it by slaughtering livestock for wintertime, right? We did this every year for whoknowshowlong, until one day it's like wha-bam! and we're hemming our gingham dresses up to out hoo-has.

I'd like to be a able to offer you a detailed, thoughtful analysis on what caused this shift in paradox, but that's not what I'm going to school for; because honestly, where can Holiday Studies 101 get me in life? And I'm too lazy to read the whole Wikipedia page.

I'd assume that somewhere down the line people realized it was sort of a BS endeavor to be wearing masks and lighting bonfires in an attempt to placate evil spirits that threatened the harvest. The specifics of this realization evolving into "so let's instead wear cheaply manufactured costumes that would fit my 12-year-old sister" I'm not sure. It might have something to do with the psychological need to embrace or acknowledge, and therefore release the fear of, one's "shadow aspect" -- those dark wants (e.g. to be OMG naughty) in our nature -- as Jung would say; or possibly as a way to gain control over others through shock, if someone felt she had very little power in her life. But I'm just taking a shot in the dark, here.

My point? Gorging on Twix, I love. Having Halloween being fashioned ever more surely into a holiday centered solely around skank wear, however, makes me cry a little in the dark. I miss the bed sheet ghosts and thrift store hobos of my childhood.