There was this guy, we’ll call him Checklist, cause that’s how he fucks. I have made the mistake of showing my blog to a couple of people I know in real life, including him. One time Checklist said to me that I needed to make this blog more about me and my experiences, that I need to give my audience a more intimate sense of who I am. I had no idea what he was talking about, or how my blog could get any more personal than it already was, or why he thought it would be better to ditch my premise to write in that touristy, amateur style where you feel like you have to log every single thing that happened to you that day and none of it is interesting.

Then I realized: he was asking me to write porn. Maybe he knew what he was asking and thought it was funny to be suggesting something lewd, or maybe he was not even aware of his own motivations. With all the irrelevant, ivory tower shit I get from these guys I would not be surprised if they thought of their masturbation as a collaboration in my personal creativity, and I know they cannot separate their masturbation from their intellectualism. He was asking me to write jerk-off material. Once I realized that, the parts that seemed like nonsense all the sudden became clear: he thought I was hiding my “real” self because I wasn’t writing essays about how horny I was and how much I loved having sex with the various people I talk about in my discussions of my otherwise-negative interactions with those people.

So, in case I should continue posting to this blog, let me establish that I will not be entertaining Checklist or any of the other equivocating, cheap, self-centered, probably-married, weirdly techno-illiterate manbabies who have demonstrated that they think they get to assign themselves a role in my life. I have no more room for the onslaught; the demands that you don’t think are demands; the rush home; the following; the spam-level contact; the calls at 2 a.m. and, when I don’t answer, the calls back. I don’t have room for the sleeplessness, the stress dreams, the near-constant awareness that I am no better than an animal, at least for our current purposes, which are kinda the only purposes I’m dealing with right now. I don’t even have room to ask nicely because niceness is work and I don’t work for free. If I hear even the teeniest, tiniest, IP-address peep out of you people I am going to make you regret the day you ever met me. Let me do what you do all the time and make it known that although you might be alive, here in this space you do not get to be a person. You may find a space somewhere to be a whole person or you may not find that space, but whether you find it does not matter to me and you do not get to find it here. You can be a person as long as I don’t have to know about it.

Let me put you in the same position that you put me in all the time and say that if I see you, or hear you, or even accidentally pass you on the street, I will call your respective wives. Your existence is an affront and I will interpret it however I want. Like you, all the time.


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