This is for Cecily and Eliza

My dearest friends, and my most compelling tormentors.

I tend to think that you don't really realize how much you've hurt me. I tend to attribute that time of our lives to teenage immaturity. Few teenagers know who they are, where the stand in the world, or where their true wealth as human beings lie. Truly, I cannot blame you for your actions back then. I was the same way, and I know exactly why we were all so cruel to each other.

Today, though, you can still hurt me. It surprises me that the actions of two women I haven't spoken to in years could still have any effect on me, but affect me you do. I still agonize over us. Over who we were, and how close we could be if only the stars aligned ever so properly.

But then I remember. I remember that I cannot spend a night with you without somehow saying something you feel I shouldn't have said. I remember that, rather than being an adult about a "foot in mouth" moment, you feel the compelling need to react. I remember that you choose not to have a constructive conversation about why what I said hurt you, that you would rather exact revenge on me. That you would rather shame me, isolate me, and generally make me feel like a socially retarded moron than ever admit that I had hurt your feelings.

I get it. I'm not the most socially cognizant person in the world. But here's the thing: I'm really not all that far away from social awareness either. I don't have autism-level social retardation. Mine is more along the lines of guy-level retardation.

 For so long, you made me feel like the outcast. The girl who always said the wrong thing, the girl who should be ashamed of herself because her poise was imperfect. You knew my weaknesses. You knew that I was incapable of retaliating in a like fashion. So, you passive-aggressively pushed my buttons and then shamed me for expressing my emotions openly and honestly. You were the victim in my anger. Oh, you were so very, very good at what you did.

But here's the thing: you're tiny. Hell, you're downright minuscule, and you know it. Maybe not on the surface, but deep in your subconscious, you know. And you're not okay with that. You feel the need to be big, bold, and brave. To shine like the light of a thousand stars. We all do.

But you don't know how to make yourself shine more brightly. You never did. That's why you hated me so much. That's why you still can't stand to hear me talk about my successes. You don't know how to shine more brightly. You just know how to make others appear more dim.

You aren't brave. You don't know how to face yourself; to look yourself in the eye and say "I'm not good enough." You pretend at confidence, but you can never achieve it if you can't even turn your eyes inward and look for your own failings. That's why you choose to put me down. What is that about a plank in the eye?

Honestly, when I'm not angry at you, I feel bad for you. I know that sounds patronizing and I would be hella pissed if someone said it to me the way that I'm about to say it to you, but I really do. I don't think you're going to amount to anything. And I think you both know that, and that is why you exert so much effort in catty gossip.

The sad thing is, you could be so much. Cecily, you are so kind. Not when you're feeling insecure, not when there's someone around who appears to shine brighter. But, when you see someone who is genuinely pitiful, you don't even think twice. You just care. Eliza, you are so smart. You can see the truth in things that few others can see. But you choose to use that intelligence as a tool of manipulation rather than a tool of betterment.

You, my oldest and dearest friends, have wasted yourselves. I wish with all of my heart that we could have grown together instead of apart. I still see so much potential in both of you, no matter the pain you've caused me. I just wish that you weren't so afraid to look inside. Yeah, you would see some ugly things, but I think that you would see so much beauty as well. You just have to take that first step.

Apparently I'm Inappropriate.

Ok. You can take your standards and shove them right up that professional little ass of yours. Newsflash: you are the only person who has ever expressed a concern for my conversation topics of choice. I don't give a fuck about the delicate sensibilities of others. Actually, I do a little. I don't talk about controversial topics. Not religion, not politics, not womens' rights or minority issues. I do my best to refrain from sharing my opinions. Occasionally, if the conversation naturally goes in that direction, I'll talk about social issues like culture, drugs, and poverty.

You, on the other hand, might know how to talk about silly little superficial shit like lipstick and purses, but if you want to talk about standards, I would say that there is no contest about whose are higher. You waste your brain juice on fashion, fad diets, makeup, and pretty pink office supplies. I applaud your ability to be direct, but don't for a second think that your standards are better than mine. I'm not the one who spends their time commenting on how poorly dressed others are.

Here's a hint: if you want people to be comfortable in your office, don't encourage an environment of stuffiness. My openness is one of the greatest abilities I utilize. It's what makes me approachable. It's what makes people trust me. It's why the new girl and I were able to bond on her first day, and it's probably going to be why she comes to me with questions or concerns. If you were as smart as you think you are, you would utilize that skill and take some of the training load off of yourself. Who cares if it's not "office appropriate?" We're not in a board room or at a networking function. (newsflash: I have one of the best track records with those) We're behind closed doors at a rinky-dink insurance office run by a former construction worker.

You might think that social norms are of the utmost importance, but the fact of the matter is that the new girl is going to be really, really uncomfortable if you essentially tell her to shut up like you did me. Much, much more uncomfortable than she was when she initiated a personal conversation with me. And she's likely going to think that I'm a stiff-ass bitch for ignoring her prompts from here on out.

Listen lady, you seem nice enough, but the more time I spend with you, the more you get on my bad side. I am not your teenage daughter (somehow I'm not surprised that you can't get her to listen to you) and if you keep making it a point to criticize my petty little nothings I might not be able to resist spiteful disobedience.

Dear Dad...

I kinda hope you're reading this. After all, we both know that you can spy on people like no other.

Here's the deal. I don't owe you shit. You may have "given me life," you may have put clothes on my back and food in my mouth and taken care of me(grudgingly, I might add) for 18 years. So congratufuckinglations, you did the bare minimum that a parent should do. You may have spawned me, but any person with a working reproductive system can make a baby. Many do that absolutely should not, and you were one of them. But you cannot claim that you "gave me life." You imposed biological life upon me to fulfill the egotistical need to copy yourself, but you sucked the spiritual and emotional life right out of me.

Any time I start thinking of doing something I love, something that would make my happy or make my dreams come true, your voice pops into my head and tells me not to do it. When I falter, when I make a mistake, your voice pops into my head and tells me what a fuckup I am. When I struggle, your voice tells me that I'm a failure, that I'm always going to be a failure and that I need to be fixed.

When someone gives something to me, out of the goodness of their heart, with no expectation of return, your voice tells me that I owe them, that I am forever in debt to that person. Even if it's dinner. Even if it's something that I desperately need. I'm not allowed to ask, because to ask for help is to enter into a binding contract that I can never escape.

Also, how dare you sick your slimy, manipulative, sycophantic wife on me? The only reason I haven't steamrolled her yet is because it would be like a grown man picking a fight with an autistic toddler. I am not her child. I never have been, I never will be, and if she wants children so badly, she can fucking adopt. I hope she doesn't, though, because a child raised by the two of you would likely give up on life before puberty.

Also, wife, don't fucking tell me how to live my life. Don't tell me what to do or how to think, don't tell me what's right and what's wrong. You lived on apron strings for 40 years out of 50. You don't know shit. I am the child of another woman. How dare you even attempt to turn my morals around? For that matter, how dare you tell me that I "need help?" I have a feeling that I would be a lot better off if you hadn't gotten in the middle of my relationship with my father. But we all know that you're the princess in any situation and if you want someone's attention, then their children are going to have to move aside.

And this one is for the both of you. I am a driven, opinionated, strong-willed person, and I am my own person. Through emotional abuse and manipulation, you were able to wholly and completely cow me for 18 years, but that tactic is what made me decide to walk away. And thank god I did. Sad thing is you're both too proud or blind to realize that it was your hand that turned me away.

Dad, I don't know what you were thinking when you decided to have children, but you made the wrong choice. I have heard of worse fathers, but I've never met one. I have to acknowledge that you were decent when we were younger. You drank too much and you spent all of our money, but at least you treated us like you loved us. But maybe all that alcohol addled your brain, or maybe I grew up, but if you died tomorrow, I don't know how much I would grieve. I've already grieved so much. I might even be relieved that I would never be obligated to speak to you again.

After all, I wouldn't have to send you a wedding invitation or baby pictures. I wouldn't have to wrestle with myself about whether I want to allow you to walk me down the aisle or hold my children. I wouldn't have to dread the idea of you somehow getting ahold of my phone number or address and tracking me down to insist that I do you or your newfound clan one service or another. I wouldn't have to worry about what you're saying to the rest of the family. Not that it matters, most of them are as crazy as you.

I don't think I'm going to welcome you back into my life. You don't deserve the privilege. It is a privilege, by the way. Not a right. That goes the same for my children, my marriage, and everything else.

This One is for You, Ethan

Does anybody have that friend who is just a fucking asshole? The Grammar Nazi, the Armchair Activist, The Omnipotent and All-Knowing Allah of Politics, Science, and Ethics who can successfully turn a joke about blow jobs into an all-out debate about the greatest evils of mankind? Yeah, this one is for that guy.

Alright, fella, we all know that your ego is a voracious beast that must be fed several hundred pounds of raw meat daily. Generally speaking, we tolerate you because we're mature, peaceful people and we don't have the energy to go fist-to-cuffs with you in every conversation. You're even likeable when you're in normal person mode.

It's just those times when you have to pop in from nowhere to criticize a light-hearted conversation that really, really make me want to reach through the computer and choke the living shit out of you.

So let's break this down. That particular argument was "education does not equal intelligence," which apparently didn't agree with my previous post expressing consternation about syntax (also for someone who thinks I'm a moronic asshole, he sure pays a lot of attention to my Facebook). In layman's terms, thinly veiled behind your passion and excellent verbal skills, you're calling me a hypocritical idiot.

Oh. My. God. The English language is something that must be taught. Taught. Teaching. Learning. Education. Even native speakers are still taught the language.

And you're calling me a hypocrite? Oh wait, that's right. The term was "flawed logic."

You are exactly the kind of person that (light-hearted, remember) post was talking about. Exactly that kind of person. You have the standard ethnocentric white boy mentality that people who struggle with your native language are stupid.

I don't know if you were able to realize this through your blinders of moral outrage, but we're on the same team here. We agree that education and intelligence are not one and the same. What we disagree on is the means of measurement. So not only did you make yourself look like an ass, you alienated a potential ally. Good on you.

Also, my argument has science backing it up. Yours is just a bunch of redneck pondering. Which is what you are, no matter how much time you spend on the internet.