HERstory

Stalk and Judge, Much?

512828925_9462f91c42 I'm in Florida, to be with my sister during what is a rather difficult time for her-- those of you who need to know what is going on with her already do, those of you who don't need to know, don't.  Contrary to troll-ular belief, my entire life is not lived online and beyond that, like any decent human, I take the privacy of my loved ones seriously.

::

After taking her to church to receive communion per our Mother's request, little seester asked if I'd be willing to go to the nearby outlet mall to take her mind off of sad, heavy things.  Now what sane girl says no to shopping-as-therapy?  Especially when it's her only sibling doing the requesting?

Later that evening, someone ill left the following comment for the over-burdened SM Intern to ban and delete:

Anna-
Quite bizarre...I saw you at the outlet malls today. Why the f* were you wearing a sundress and a straw hat to go outlet shopping? Whatever, you had two people following you around...another way to get attention I suppose.

Nice.  Because obviously, I didn't do anything else that day besides go to that shopping plaza for 90 minutes, not that it's anyone's business what I wear or don't.  I love hats when it's this sunny, donning one is easier than sporting sunglasses, which irritate my poor allergy-beleaguered nose this time of year.

       
   
    What strikes me about this comment-- besides the unnecessary cruelty and judgmental bullshit-- is how certain people love to take a tiny segment of my life and stretch it out for their petty purposes or because that's how small their minds and hearts are or whatever...until that picture distorts and becomes a caricature, of me, of my reality.    
   

What strikes me about this comment-- besides the unnecessary cruelty and judgmental bullshit-- is how certain people love to take a tiny segment of my life and stretch it out for their petty purposes or because that's how small their minds and hearts are or whatever...until that picture distorts and becomes a caricature, of me, of my reality.

Whether they read my blog posts (which I have always maintained cover no more than 20% of my life) or see me for all of two minutes in Memorial Day crowds, that nano-sliver of information they cherry-pick is all that is required to condemn me.

What if it hadn't been me?  I don't think it would have mattered.  They didn't even consider that solid possibility because they were too excited to insult and degrade me via the last post I wrote for SM.  I can't imagine such a twisted, hatred-saturated thought process but I'm going to try, because it's better than contemplating how much time this unbalanced person spent following me and my family around, in order to ascertain if the two inches of face showing underneath a rather large hat belonged to me.  I may not be perfect or pleasant or pretty by your standards, but I deserve more than this. Anyone would.

Posted on Monday, May 28, 2007 at 06:26 PM in icky things | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBack (0)

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why?

from my fotolog's main page:

J @ 2004-04-07 09:57 said:

Randomly discovered your fotolog off Gawker..must say, I love your wit! But your love for your father almost seems a bit.....incestual


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


ouch.

Posted on Wednesday, April 07, 2004 at 02:03 PM in icky things | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (4)

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daddy's girl redux: FINAL version, 3.22.4

this is not going to be a good post.

or a happy one. i've been dreading its creation all night.

with my 2nd glass of shiraz in front of me, i'm pulling out the big guns to self-bribe. i have had no desire to write. in weeks. even diary, the unpolished home of stream-of-ANNAness languishes. the flog gasps potentially final breaths. where did she go? and will she ever post anything more substantial than an internet quiz about books or cities?

i don't know.

that's the honest to G-d truth. i'm in so much pain right now, i can't bear to do anything, much less create. just typing "pain" in that last sentence filled my eyes with saltwater recrimination. this was supposed to be a good year. Ha. i was mindless when i believed that. Naïve. You see, i didn't pay attention to dates…

march 17.

st. patrick's day to the rest of you, but not me. kiss me, i'm here b/c of this holiday. (note to self: wear emerald green knickers. oh, whom are you kidding. no one shall pinch you on this bleak day). bleak? yes. you read right. it's bleak.

decades ago, on this exact day, a nervous man in a new suit and a shy woman in an ecru sari walked in to the Greek Orthodox church in San Bernardino, CA. when they walked out, they were bound to each other, under G-d's watchful eye. when they walked out, they were my parents.

when i was a little girl, i thought it odd that my parents got married on this irish holiday. "couldn't they pick a normal day???" i took it as proof-positive that i was weird, that my family was odd, that my parents were...well, my parents. luxuries, anna. if only you knew, all those years that you scorned it, that one day you'd be grateful for what was seemingly strange, if only you knew that this day would come...march 17, 2004.

30.

30 surrounds me. this is my last year on the "good side" of it. my main blog just achieved the mile-stone of 30,000 hits. 30 grand is the compensation for a certain campaign job. 30.

do you think that i'm cognizant of any of that? if you do, you are new to H.~.E.~.R.~.S.~.T.~.O.~.R.~.Y. all i can think about right now is sadness. a parallel sort of morose wistfulness to what I felt five years ago: two-and-a-half months after daddy died, i watched my mother walk down our stairs, eyes so bloodshot that i could see the spiderweb of red from yards away ("don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes..." but are the eyes of soldiers white? i don't think so. i think they are flat and ruddy, like mummy's were that day). i had no words for her. finally, after an hour, she gazed blankly out of our window. "we didn't even make it to our 25th anniversary."

what do you say to someone on a day such as this? "happy...anniversary?" "happy almost anniversary?" "i'm sorry?" i have never known what to say when it really matters. i just awkwardly fumble about the day, shame replacing my need for blush, unsure of what words are apposite. words are my life. when i am not sure of them, i am not sure of myself.

when my mother murmured her tragic "we never hit 25" proclamation, as numb as i was, i utilised the power of every useless cell in my body to not weep in her presence. i put my plate in the sink and tried not to run upstairs. i was there soon enough, rushing in to my bathroom, my sanctuary, door closing carefully, back flush against it, sliding down, down, down to the floor until my wooden body made a 90 degree angle w/the help of the tiled floor my father had ordered, just months before.

(i'm almost out of shiraz. what to do?)

there is this weird, USELESS little wall that juts out slightly where the bathtub begins, a few feet from the door. i call it the "funny-bone molester", b/c i bang my elbow in to it EVERY time i try and curl or dry my hair. it's the most inefficient sort of design ever. except for moments when i want to hide. when i was a long-legged little girl, and i was running away from spankings, i quickly figured out that if i had my back to the door, and my little payal'd feet flush against this wall, no one could open the door, not with my “L”-shaped will keeping them at bay. safe. they could use the key to pick the lock, but my palms would be bracing me against the cold floor, my back married to the strong door, my feet pushing against the shitty wall that does not allow me to rhyme another word with "-oor". (see? i TOLD you it was useless)...and they wouldn't be able to get in.

on march 17, 1999, no one was chasing me. i was merely running away from truth and sadness. my legs were long enough that they bent at the knees when i assumed my familiar, stubborn position. my palms were too busy to needlessly push against the floor; they were pressed to my slick, heaving cheeks. weep, anna. they were married 24 years. G-d didn't let them reach 25, just like he didn't let your daddy see his twin dreams of your marriage and your graduation from law school. weep. b/c your mother is a widow. and you, well, despite appearances, in your heart you feel that you are an orphan.

my parents did not have a fantastic marriage. but now, now that i'm an elderly spinster, i know that even the uncles and aunties that i revered, the couples that i wished would adopt me, the parents that created eagle scouts and humanitarians...even they don't know perfection. my parents fought often. my father would rail at his haste in marrying my mother. cursing his fate until he saw the stricken look on my downcast face. once, he roughly placed his fingers under a chin which threatened to gouge out my clavicle, yanking it up. "why are YOU upset? you're the only good that came from any of this." his eyes flashed at me. no one ever noticed this, except for me, but my dad had the lightest eyes in my family. his bifocals were tinted, so it was impossible to tell. but as a toddler, i remember taking off his glasses, and staring at his eyes, fascinated by their colour. have you ever seen black eyes? i have. several of my uncles have them, eyes so dark, i wonder how their doctors can tell if their pupils are dilating...

daddy's eyes were lighter than mine (chestnut), but not quite honey-coloured. they were flat. that alone always made the faultline on my heart grow a little longer, splinter a little more. defeated daddy. so much angst, so much regret. when i was a little girl, and i was still good, sometimes your eyes shined. as i got older, they got duller. i told myself that it was b/c of your vision and finally the glaucoma...but i know the truth; your disappointment in me wore down those powerful rosetta stones until they looked like common rocks.

oh, daddy.

march, 17, 2004. this day should've been a milestone. thirty years of marriage, thirty years of family. why aren't you here, daddy? why did he have to take you away from me? from us? days like today make your absence real, they scrape my insides raw, they spill tears in to my shiraz. why do these arbitrary numbers assume such powers? why am i weeping at 30? was 28 any less significant?

it was.

who cares about numbers like 28? no one. two years ago, i was running my first congressional campaign. i was in dallas, living at mockingbird station, using the degree that everyone naysayed about...i was 27 and i was fierce. well, professionally at least...

personally...i was EXACTLY where i am right now. ready to give up and give in.

Continue reading "daddy's girl redux: FINAL version, 3.22.4" »

Posted on Monday, March 22, 2004 at 09:02 PM in icky things | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)

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you've got to be kidding

sigh.  i was looking at stats/refs for  H.~.E.~.R.~.S.~.T.~.O.~.R.~.Y and i saw this link...

http://thepill.blogs.com/thepill/

intrigued, i clicked.  perhaps it's some feminist site about how birth control liberated women to be their sexual selves...

um.  it's not.  just remember, as stated in a previous post (also, appositely enough, about stats/refs-- "apparently, some of you LOVE tiny penises. not that there's anything wrong with that".) we at H.~.E.~.R.~.S.~.T.~.O.~.R.~.Y are categorically opposed to small...um...feet.  ;)

 

Posted on Monday, December 01, 2003 at 11:50 PM in icky things | Permalink | Comments (5)

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hack cough sneeze gasp

i am sick! this blows...i'd like to thank the academy, the asshole who sits directly behind me, who decided to act like this was motherfucking beijing and spit constantly in to napkins that went in to his open garbage can, i'd like to thank the worthless whore who gave HIM the flu, so that he could pass it along, and most of all, i'd like to thank my motherfucking supervisor, who informed me haughtily that i have no more sick time.
oh, and big ups to G-O-D...i owe everything i have to the one above...and...and my fans...i gotta remember my fans :p

i almost quit.

i deserve SO much more than this, and my only, minute consolation is that someday it shall all be fodder for me fiction. ah, wait, i'm supposed to be writing fiction NOW. fabulous. so my consummating NaNoWriMo is threatened by the sheerly shitty timing of this too. FAN-fucking-TASTIC.

i get cranky when i'm sick. send love and triple-ply kleenex infused with lotion my way, please. i'm a whiny baby today :(

waaaaaaaaah

Posted on Tuesday, November 04, 2003 at 05:32 PM in icky things | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

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apparently, some of you LOVE tiny penises. not that there's anything wrong with that.

it's always fun to see how people get to my blog. :)

my flog is often responsible for sending surfers over, as is the "recently updated" feature that typepad allows us to enable; you'll see this on my own blog, to the right. whenever one of us typepadders posts, it shows up on that list. the reason why i allow this on *my* page is because i'm grateful for the random hits that i receive when i update HERSTORY, and she shows up on "randomblogger.typepad.com's" page. it's all karmic, you see? what goes around, refers around ;)

recently, i've been amazed at the number of times i see "www.google.com/search" as the source of a hit...so today, i whimsically went through my search engine referrals and compiled a list of items that people searched for, that serendipitously lead them to ME:


male bharatnatyam pics

my sister ass (editor's note: eeeew! you sick fuck...unless you are Caligula...just DON'T!)

friendster profile

blog "delta gamma" sister

penis (boy)

thirty-inch biceps

"rio americano" 1988

indian friendster


and the winner, for the single most number of searches is...


tiny penis.


yeah, you read right. out of 108 hits received yesterday, 16 were thanks to perverts searching for "tiny penis" on google or occasionally, yahoo. who the bleeding hell googles "tiny penis"? should you have nothing better to google, please contact me via the "comments" function of this blog, and i will assign you quite a fucking list of shit to google, all of which will be more edifying than "tiny penis".

and just for the record? we at HERSTORY are categorically opposed to tiny penises. especially when they are transported about in piece of shit mitsubishi eclipses that get spanked by the mighty red honda civic EX which is STOCK...and don't you forget it. ah, what will the world do when i get a REAL sports car to replace my pretend one? in the immortal flow of this muchacha mala's beloved beatnuts..."watch out now!" ;)

Posted on Tuesday, October 07, 2003 at 12:52 AM in icky things | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

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