Caterwauling

In addition to a perfume cloud of heterosexual-male repellent, Tom pointed out that I forgot to turn off my crazy-person attractor.

I’ve now officially met the world’s most insane person. Makes all the others seem like functional, normal citizens. Oh. My. God. I never dreamed this day could actually come.

There’s an old Poe lyric, that “You can’t talk to a psycho like a normal human being.” And yet, I keep trying with the newest nut. Because Crazy has something of mine that I paid a lot of money for and want to have back. Someone lent it to them without my permission — nay, AGAINST my stated wishes. Is it replaceable? Sure. But the principle is that I’ve been (mostly) nice and calm and friendly and patient, only to be the target of their mania. And there ain’t enough lipstick in Sephora to put lipstick on THAT pig. Lord.

I’ve always been the one to be the better person. And as tiring as it is sometimes to stay beyond reproach, I don’t stoop to others’ levels — I’d throw out my back. And that’s the thing. When you finally have had enough, especially from some asshole whose opinion has no bearing on reality and certainly not my reality, your options are pretty limited. I take Pisco’s advice to heart, which is to ask God to “please give that asshole EXACTLY what they deserve.” And move on. Quickly.

I have this bellowing pig of a woman who got hold of my phone number and e-mail. And boy, when I say “bellowing pig,” I’m being nice about it. I’ve been called so many names and been the recipient of an inordinate number of ugly comments that it’s just funny to sit and watch her try to get to me. The good news is that she can be obliterated with visual voicemail. But I’m sitting on a pile of threatening e-mail addresses and the IPs behind them, and wondering whether to tell the hog’s employer what his pwecious piggie is doing on company time. Or do I just re-route everything to the trash folder and call it a day that went by without seeing her obituary?

I just don’t get people who have to inflict their own self-misery on others. Nobody cares. Really. These idiots are like tornadoes, trying to tear asunder everything and everyone in their paths whether those folks did them wrong (per their perception) or not. You wonder how they look in the mirror and live with themselves, but then again, they get off on being obnoxious. So why indulge them? They continue creating drama in their own minds and then acting upon their ire that has no basis.

It’s not even worth it to ask why they’re targeting you. The answer is always the same, anyway. Jealousy. Insecurity. Boredom. Pettiness. Insignificance. No less, and certainly no more.

OK, so I did call her a double-wide, conniving, cruel, mean-spirited, evil, vicious bitch. Deservedly so, might I add. She says she’s calling an attorney and the police chief if I show up to get my stuff. *yawn* Honey, I have the FBI on speed-dial — let your Mayberry cops have at me. And quite honestly, the stuff I want back, I would probably end up bashing over her head. (One item being a television — I do have a delicious fantasy of throwing her through it and seeing her feet sticking out of it.)

Karma’s already hit piggly-wiggly with the homely stick, so I’m counting on God to finish what he started with that mess. I just find it funny as all hell that every time I say give me a time to get my stuff so I can get out of your life and, more importantly, I can get her mess of an ass out of MINE, I’m told to rot in hell. Please. That path has been pioneered. *yawn again* Me, rot in hell? With you? Delusional.

I’m not changing my phone number, my e-mail or my URL. Get used to it. If you want me to be out of your lives, STOP LOOKING FOR ME. Honestly, I won’t be hurt.

And BTW, Cowbell can HAVE the TV and whatever else. I’ll make more money and buy bigger and better. Honestly, I have just LOVED being calm and watching her head spin as I refuse to be rattled. For the record, silence is not a sign of weakness — it’s a sign of STRENGTH. It is also a blatant clue about my not actually giving a shit.

If it makes everybody feel better to rain on everybody else’s parade, fine. I will dance in the rain because that’s what I do — even if it’s someone else’s rain. The universe is watching our every move, and whether it’s a lawyer or a detective or Jesus Christ himself standing before me, I’ll be standing there guileless. And my suite in hell will have a spa and a martini bar, so I’d suggest being nice to me now while you still can. 😉

This entry was posted on Thursday, September 27th, 2007 at 9:40 PM and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.