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It started back in January. While I’m not one to dwell on trolls, mean comments, or other such internet tomfoolery, because really, why waste the energy I could spend photoshopping my fake dead cat Mr. Sprinkles into inappropriate pictures?

But this comment came from an IP address in the area local enough that a family member could had written it. It said, in a comment dripping with patronizing condescension (forgive me for paraphrasing), “You’re an addict hiding in plain sight.”

I’ve been accused of many things on my blog (my favorite being “you’re not funny,” because I’ve only ever claimed to be funny LOOKING), but to be called an addict, after being accused of being a drug-seeker by the clinic doctor, that was, well, disheartening. Why?

There’s not a day that goes by that I do not worry I will become an addict. We adult children of alcoholics; we are four times as likely to become addicts, and well, both of my parents are recovering alcoholics, which I’d imagine would increase my own likelihood infinitesimally. I’ve written about it ad nauseum because it’s part of who I am. I’m not shy about hiding my past because I know we’re only as sick as our secrets and I do not wish to live my life shrouded in secrecy, pretending my past was a Norman Rockwell painting.

I cannot be the Secret Keeper. It is not in my nature and it is not something I intend to start doing now. Which is, in part, why I am putting back up the only post I’ve ever removed.

I do not know who made such a patronizing, disdainful comment way back in January (although I have my suspicions) but it was that comment that caused me to pull back inward, sharing with you, My Pranksters; my family, only things that could no longer hurt me. Certainly you could call me an assjacket when I put up a picture of my fake dead cat or ramble on about Mark Zuckerberg and his stupid hair, but none, not a single one would hurt. Not really.

But I played it safe for months, living a [redacted] life, only sharing the things that I thought would keep me safe. And I was right, they did. They also made me miserable.

There’s nothing I love more than coming here, spilling my guts to you, my family, and having a single person pipe in and say, “you know what? I feel that way too.” That’s why I do what I do. There’s little more powerful than knowing someone out there feels just like you do. That I am no longer alone in the universe.

And I’m sorry that a single thoughtless comment led to a mostly [redacted] life. Whomever left the comment doesn’t “know me, the real me;” YOU do. My Pranksters. My family.

You deserve better and so do I. It’s time to speak our truth. In the end, that’s all we have.

Aunt Becky: “Oooooh, I should make KEY LIME BARS tonight. It’s only 8:30 and House, MD is delayed and OOOOOO TASTY.”

Aunt Becky (wanders to the pantry): “OH I HAVE RICE TOO.”

Aunt Becky: “Who the fuck eats rice around here?”

Aunt Becky (pours Key Lime crust into pan and throws it into the preheated oven for 8 minutes): “I should take some Vitamin V to properly enjoy The House Experience.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m not sure how I like the new storyline. I think there should be more singing cats.”

Aunt Becky: “OOOO The TWITTER. I SHOULD TWEET SOMETHING PITHY ABOUT CELERY.”

Aunt Becky: “I am the celery pundit!”

Aunt Becky: “That’s PROBABLY the crowning achievement of my life. How pathetic.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m going to doodle ‘Aunt Becky Rules’ on the fridge. Certainly they ALL need a reminder. Perhaps THEN I can get my fake monkey butler Mr. Pinchey!”

Aunt Becky: “Celery is fucking bullshit.”

Aunt Becky (wanders outside to check on roses): “Full moon. Explains a lot. I should give the full moon a FULL MOON.”

(gives full moon a full moon)

Aunt Becky: “I hope my neighbors saw that.”

Aunt Becky (wanders back inside): “Wonder if House, MD is on. We’re not getting back together until he gets a haircut. Prison mullet looks like, well, Prison Mullet. Why can’t he be all Michael Scoffield hot?”

Aunt Becky (spies pan sitting back atop stove, timer blaring): “OOOO. SHIT. DID I ACCIDENTALLY NOT THROW THE PAN IN THE OVEN? I’M SUCH A FUCKING DUMBASS, SWEET BABY JESUS.”

Aunt Becky (reaches to grab pan): “I can totally pretend I MEANT to leave that out….OH BLOODY FUCKING HELL HOT FUCK GODDAMMIT.”

—————

Moral of the story: when in doubt, use a test subject to handle all potentially hot items. Alternately, an oven mitt. But mostly a test subject.

There’s no end to the way to the way people who write blogs, use The Facebook, Tumblr, and use The Twitter can judge themselves. Number of comments, number of blog hits, amount of “friends” on The Facebook, number of Tumblr followers, number of The Twitter followers. It never fucking ends.

Because, at the end of the day, Pranksters, we ALL know someone artificially better than ourselves.

The question, though, is DO WE GIVE A FUCK?

(let’s hear it for a resounding NO)

(see also: why let The Man keep us down?)

I was recently introduced to a new concept in Feel Bad About Yourself on the Internet:

Klout.

Klout is supposed to be a measure of your Twitter influence and blah-blah-blah, squirt, squirt. I stopped listening when I saw the shiny numbers.

Here, Pranksters, let me give you a tutorial about what Klout says about me.

klout-score

OOOOH! Snazzy!

There a big fat number next to my Twitter avatar and some other buttons, who-dillys and whatchamacallits right there! I’m just SURE this is going to be a GREAT representation of how I, Your Aunt Becky, behaves on The Internet. I am SURE I’m about to learn something!

So, what’s this about “topics?” Let’s see what topics I choose to impart my most important innermost thoughts and feelers about. After all, this is what I’m influential about!

influential-klout

You had me, Klout, until you told me I was influential about “tacos.” Because while I do routinely say, “I’d like to kick Martha Stewart in the taco,” I don’t think we have an understanding as to precisely what type of taco I’m referring to. Perhaps you’ll do better next time, Klout.

P.S. Why can’t I be influential about encased meats? #justsayin

klout-celeryIf there’s a single more useless vegetable in the planet than celery, I do know know what it is. Tacos, I can sorta understand, Klout, but CELERY? I hate celery with the fiery passions of a thousand burning suns, more vigorously than I hate John C. Mayer, and I’d be willing to bet that I’ve never, ever said anything about celery in my life.

BECAUSE CELERY DOESN’T MERIT CONVERSATIONS.

In fact, Pranksters, this may be the longest I’ve spoken about celery in my life.

Celery = bullshit. Let’s move on.

Lastly, let’s see my Klout style. Certainly this will give some insight into the crap I spew out in 140 characters or less…right? The celery thing has to be some sort of fucked-up glitch on Klout’s end. It simply must be.

klout-pundit…..

…..

…..

…..

……

So you’re saying I’m a pundit about celery, Klout? A CELERY PUNDIT? I MAKE THE MOTHERFUCKING NEWS ABOUT CELERY?

Ouch.

Just.

OUCH.

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