A couple of weeks ago, Pranksters, I came here and dumped my thoughts all over your screen. In this case, my thoughts were not about SkyMall kitties or why John C. Mayer ruined my life, but about hate.
Specifically, hateful comments.
I took a comment I’d gotten in January of this year and explained that it had caused me to live a [redacted] life.
(sidebar: [redacted] means to edit out sensitive information)
It wasn’t a particularly good post, however, it was one of those things I had to write to get it out. By getting it out, I’d hoped to be able to move on to a non-[redacted] life. I don’t much appreciate having to shit rainbows and kittens when I’m in a shit ON rainbows and kittens kind of mood, and I knew it had impacted me. I also knew why.
But in the comments on that post, I was asked a question. A question that deserves more of an answer than a comment reply could offer. And a question that I’d welcome your opinion about.
The question was simple (pardon me for paraphrasing):
“Do you feel that the negative comments outweigh the positive?”
The answer? Not so simple.
While I haven’t been subject of numerous hateful comments from Internet Mole People (read: trolls), I have gotten a handful, although most about my dog, Auggie. Just FYI, Pranksters, the Internet is sensitive about dogs.
Most of the hateful comments have been of this ilk:
“You’re not funny.”
“This was navel-grazing.”
“You have problems.”
“You should kill yourself.” (from The Twitter)
To which I would heartily agree with all but the last sentiment. After all, the world needs ditch-diggers too.
Not one of those bothered me, except for the “you’re not funny” bit. And that only bothered me because I never SAID I was funny. Funny LOOKING perhaps, but funny? Not so much.
(pointless sidebar too! Who SAYS “I’m funny” about themselves anyway? UN-funny people, that’s who.)(also: your mom)
Anyway. Those type of Internet Mole People comments are fine. Just because you leave them doesn’t mean I have to publish them and just because I publish them doesn’t mean I cry unicorn tears into my pillow at night. You are CERTAINLY welcome to your opinion. And we all know Anonymity + The Internet = Assjackets. The difference is, I don’t have to give you the platform to broadcast it. Sorry, ’bout that.
(also: I am NOT sorry)
But the comment in question, well, it called me an addict. That was not cool. Why? Well, if I didn’t have massive migraines or two alcoholic parents (note: I am not bashing my parents, simply stating the truth. They are recovering addicts)(see also: I am only as sick as my secrets), maybe I’d have laughed. After all, I was the dumbass who named my blog “Mommy Wants Vodka.” What can I expect?
However, it’s something I worry about. Becoming an addict myself, that is, not renaming my blog. I’m not sure how to avoid that one.
So to be called out like that by “someone who knows me, the REAL me,” well, ouch. Condescending + hitting a nerve = hurt. That sort of comment sticks with you.
Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe I was in the wrong for allowing it to hurt me. Maybe I’ll get hit by a bus crossing the street. Who fucking knows?
The point is, though, that sometimes cruelish comments do hurt. I think, though, that they only hurt when they hit a little too close to home.
So I hope that answers your question, oh wise commenter. And now it’s your turn, Pranksters. How would you answer this question?
I bring to you something that will certainly keep you up all night long (but not in a creepy Lionel Ritchie way).
I should be back later with real werds, but for now, have these kitties to keep you company. Oh, and, is it creepy? Or am I just tired?
I was gently asked – nay, begged, by my friend Rachel to do something “touristy” while she was in town over the weekend. In addition to the tours of the dumpster and other assorted places I’d once gotten wasted, I decided it was probably time to actually bother doing something annoyingly touristy. Like stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare at the tall buildings while making comments about “these here tall buildings.”
However, staring at buildings is only really fun when you’re wasted and they’re swaying because YOU’RE swaying and then you vomit on the shoes of a businessman wandering past you.
I figured it was time to break from tradition and do something awesome, rather than sitting on my couch, watching dancing cat videos. Also: I was afraid Rachel was going to beat my ass.
So I packed the three of us into the old Family Truckster and navigated our way downtown, while fantasizing about how wicked it would be to have “Slasher” as my license plate rather than some letters and numbers. Because, obviously.
We ended up at the Museum of Science and Industry, which is probably MY happiest place on earth (with exception to the Hardware Store, which always trumps all). Like the auto show and Chinatown, it’s a place I’ve been going since I was a wee lass and somewhere I’m always proud to show off to non-locals.
Of course, we showed up an hour before closing. I’m excellent at timing things, Pranksters. Like I should win a medal at it.
And, as per usual, I immediately dragged them up to the anatomy exhibits, because, well, I’d rather swallow my tongue that hear ANY MORE about earth science.
When I showed up there, looking for the gigantic walk-through heart, I saw that the museum had acquired a number of the exhibits from Body Worlds, that traveling exhibition of preserved human bodies prepared using plastination to preserve the anatomical structures.
If you know my great love for anatomy, you’re probably all, “ZOMG AB, THAT SOUNDS FULL OF THE AWESOME!” And I really, really, really want nothing more than to agree with you. That I love looking at these bodies, so beautifully preserved for all to see. For ALL to fall in love with anatomy as I did so many years ago.
But you’d be wrong.
There’s something, I think, macabre about the whole thing. While I love looking at the circulatory system, so neatly preserved and lifelike, there’s something inherently creepy about seeing a dead guy riding a skateboard. Even if I can see the glorious muscular system in use just as it was when he was alive (presuming, of course, that he’d ever ridden a skateboard before).
I recall the day that my anatomy teacher asked me to help with the dissection of our cadaver. It did not bother me to see someone dead, someone preserved in formalin, or someone who once had hopes, dreams, and loved just as I did. No. What bothered me was that he had a shunt in his left leg left intact from the paramedics attempting to save his life.
It dawned on me, as I was examining the circus-like Body Worlds exhibits, that we who count ourselves among the living simply do not want to think of our dead as like us.
It brings it all too close to home, I think.
And while I learned many fascinating tidbits while at the MSI – my liver, for example, is a mere three years old – I walked out of there ruminating about the freakish sideshow of Body Worlds.
My hope is that the Body Worlds exhibits inspire a young crop of anatomists much like I was inspired, as a wee tot, by the mere pictures of the body from an old copy of Grey’s Anatomy.
Otherwise, we’re going to have some seriously fucked up serial killers out there.