Rage Trigger/Follower Filter
Merry Christmas, everybody.
I don’t like people, and I used to just blanket the world under the statement that I hated everyone equally, but you get to know people and you dislike some people even more than you dislike others. Oh, tell me all you want about how I can’t judge a book by its’ cover, or I shouldn’t judge or I’ll be judged by the same standards. Honestly, if I don’t like you, feel free to stay the fuck away and don’t interfere in, don’t interact with, and most importantly, don’t be any influence in, my life.
Grab your breakfast dishes and hold on tight. Somebody shit in Deon’s cornflakes this morning.
I was innocently sitting at work when one of my associates walked in. She’s like, 16 or12 or something, way too young for me to have the slightest interest. You don’t get Deon unless you’re Mrs M, or Hayley Atwell, or Jeri Ryan, or Mariah Carey, or certain favored co-inhabitants of the blog-iverse. All of those people, including any that I may or may not have read about or researched online, either should know, or already know, that if you’re not Mrs M you don’t get any extra special favorable treatment. There will NEVER be any special occasions unless they include an invitation to meet Mrs M back at the bunker. I am NOT interested in complicating an already too complex life. And, you can be as hot as you want, but unless you’re 32 or older, AND you’re Mrs M, I don’t want whatever products or services you have, whether you’re selling, giving away, or just advertising. I may actually love you, you know who you are, I may compliment you in the hottest way I know how, but Mrs M owns everything and I don’t have her permission to give you anything past a hug, and barely that. OK Disclaimers over, back to my story.
Wait, one more thing: Jeri, sorry the stalkers scared you, I know that literally happens to celebrities and it sucks. All you beautiful celebrities and fellow bloggers, I’ll only ever stalk you from afar, and only ever hold you in the highest regard because you’ll never ever find your way into my arms because I’m staying in hiding in the safety of my bunker. Stay the hell away from me, there’s such a thing as too much temptation. I know you won’t be able to restrain yourself (-ves). I’m simply too hot. Irresistible. I KNOW.
OK, back to my story. She walked in and she was wearing something, we’ll call it maybe a rock and roll tee shirt or a Christmas sweater, and I said I liked it. I mean, if you’re wearing a Led Zeppelin tee shirt, everyone’s going to see it. It’s fucking right there. And if you’re wearing an ugly Christmas sweater, everyone’s going to see that. If I said what it was and she read it, well, would it help or hinder my argument? She’d know she pissed me off, not that she would read the blog, much less change her opinion of her version of the event. All I said was something complimentary about the item of clothing. Could have said the same thing in the store seeing it on a clothes hanger.
Fuck me if she didn’t start to giggle. I asked what that was about, and she said, “You know what you were doing.”
WTF?! OK so, “what was I doing?”
OK babe. I was NOT checking YOU out. Firstly, you might as well be twelve and I’m from the dark ages and whatever you’re thinking I’m thinking is just NEVER EVER going to cross my mind. Secondly, Mrs M holds all the deeds to my property. And then I thought about it. This girl is probably very sensitive, aware of herself, and I’ve already heard her besmirch the character of another guy here in the office, a friend of mine she said was staring at her. I might look over at her once a day if she’s talking to me or if I need to talk to her, but there’s none of that. And, although I didn’t want to believe it of my friend, I don’t work in his area, so I don’t know. Maybe this girl is a victim of someone’s abuse, but not of me.
It upset me. Here’s why:
In these dear United States of The Offended, although people SAY that one is presumed innocent until proven guilty, this is not the case in all cases. Young little Miss Thang, who looks young enough to be my daughter, presumed my guilt. Presumed my covert hostility. Presumed my bad intent *cue Ian, and play Jethro Tull’s Aqualung*
What the fucking fuck? I didn’t zoom in and try to observe. I observed the wardrobe and tried to say something nice. I didn’t covet the the contents. I don’t have x-ray vision, not that there’s much to observe. One can window-shop all one wants, but if the shelves are almost empty or I have better at home I’m not giving it more than a glance. Jumping to your misbegotten premature conclusions like that makes it sound like I was openly staring, taking careful measurements, and making a schematic diagram.
Your presumption of my hostility is an act of hostility to me, little one. And hostility is a HUGE trigger to my hostility, but not the kind of hostility you presumed. It’s as bad or worse than presuming that I’m privileged and you’re not based on things about me you PRESUME, without actually knowing me or anything about my life. And let me repeat myself: “Oh, tell me all you want about how I can’t judge a book by its’ cover, or I shouldn’t judge or I’ll be judged by the same standards. Honestly, if I don’t like you, feel free to stay the fuck away and don’t interfere in, don’t interact with, and most importantly, don’t be any influence in, my life.” More importantly, if you don’t like me, do the same but go twice as far away.
If I can’t judge you by your presumptiveness, and I can’t hate you back for presumptively hating me, then you are at an unfair advantage and I won’t be set up for that. That statement above is very important. Feel free to stay away, please. Don’t try to touch me, talk to me, or have any impact on my life whatsoever. Please. No, really. Please. Go. Away. And, although if pressed you would deny all of this, it’s too late. I already hate you and my walls have gone up, little one. And it’ll take a LOT for the walls to come back down. I literally put a folder up on top of the cubicle wall to prevent her from presuming my being possessed with perversion. I wouldn’t want to be speaking to her and have her think the wrong thing ever again.
Things that make me dislike people are myriad, but I try to be fair, until I get to know a person.
I’m sure there’s a top 11 list of things that do. Oh look! Here comes one now:
8 Hunger for power
7 Being over-charged for things I need
6 Reckless disregard for others
5 Being Demanding
4 Being upset when your unrealistic or unnecessary or tyrannically urgent, spoken or unspoken, demands or expectations aren’t met
3 Forcing me to do something twice when once should be enough but you weren’t satisfied the first time. (see also, demands)
2 Not doing or saying anything to acknowledge when I try hard to do something nice for you.
1 Saying you care and then presenting ongoing evidence to the contrary.
I read a quote attributed to Maria Callas, a formerly famous opera singer. The internet says she said, “Don’t come to me with your troubles. I have to work for my money, and you are young enough to work too. If you can’t make enough money to live on, you can jump out of the window or drown yourself.” It made me intensely dislike Maria, and if she wasn’t dead and found out I didn’t like her, she’d probably cry all the way to her rich friends and they’d all have flutes full of consolation champagne. If it’s the truth and that’s an accurate quote, Maria had a very ugly soul.
It goes to prove you can have a measure of outer beauty, and be completely hideous on the inside. It also goes to prove you can be surrounded by swarms of deluded people who are more than willing to tell you how great you are. These are the kind that are happy just to have your shadow fall upon them, but in the end you’re empty and worthless.
I submit that you can be a bitch and still have people who actually know you, actually like you. As evidence, your honor, I submit myself, exhibit A. Well, I THINK they like me. I’m a bitch, it’s true. Just read a little more of the blog if you’re uncertain. But I actually care about other people, and people I actually care about can tell. Maybe I’m deluding myself; maybe that’s how Maria deluded herself. But if you’re a self-centered heartless one, although people may wish to bask in the glow of your fame, or profit from it, no one really likes you.
Sure, I wish the world revolved around me or at least I wish I was privileged like some people think I am. It would make everything so much easier. For me. But it doesn’t, and I gave up on the concept of myself as God probably about the time Aqualung came out…if I was even born that long ago… not saying it wouldn’t be great to be in control, but saying I guess I can deal with the fact I’m not as long as you let me wrestle for as much control as I can have. I should probably count myself lucky to have a [ctrl] key on the keyboard, and be content with that. The more I wrestle for it, the less I seem to have. Fucking universe fucker… I’d get rid of him if I could. It’s hard enough without a thing bent on making it worse.
So yeah, my “privileged” self wrapped ONE present for Mrs M and we went shopping for some small items for our kids because that was all we could afford. I DID find one other thing for Mrs M…no, she found it and needed it for work so I bought it. The car repairs and my teeth and whatever else breaks will have to wait until next year for the “privilege.”
Judge not, so you won’t be judged. Don’t think you’re all that enough to presume I can see something that isn’t there, worse, think I’m trying to see it, and then passive-aggressively hate me for it. When I go back to work, I hope to bring Christmas cards for the top of the cubicle walls, because honey, I’ve seen into your soul, without having to inspect the shell, and it’s not attractive to me. With your ugly-ass soul, I’d rather not be able to see the shell at all, or anything you put on it, even if it is a cool rock and roll t shirt or an ugly Christmas sweater, you ugly-souled, self-centered, presumptuous fucking bitch.
For the rest of you, still, Merry Christmas and thanks for letting me vent a little. If you think that my venting is the best Christmas present you got this year, I am PROFOUNDLY sorry.
Tomorrow, something SO much better. A Christmas poem. Just you wait. And for the record, you can check me out all you want. Just don’t touch.
~Deon, feeling less pre-Christmas rage and more Christmas do-we-have -to-go-see-the-in–laws-again-stress already. Hooray for Christmas sarcasm. Save me, baby Jesus!!