Dead Bird O Rama

Lately there are more and more dead birds on the plaza around our office building. Last time I walked through the glass-encased walkway, there were three. A couple of weeks ago there was one wedged into one of the benches where the smokers hang out. They usually end up in weird positions. Upside-down and twisted, feathers still bright. It makes me sad. I went online to see if there was something strange going on. But no… a single skyscraper causes the deaths of 200 birds per day, I read.

Bad Timing

The other day I was in my mini-van listening to the radio, and a local news station’s daily terror-mongering teaser was on. Every day they tell us something new and horrible that we have to tune in at 5 PM to get the details on.

I live in Houston, Texas. As some of you know, a lot of Hurricane Katrina evacuees moved here a couple of years ago. As I mentioned at the time, some Houston residents were bitter about that. So, of course, the local media jumped on that, and they’ve been jumping on it ever since.

So I’m listening to the radio the other day, and the local news station runs this promo that can be paraphrased like so:
[Ominous music.] Your tax dollars… WASTED. Two years ago, Houston took in New Orlean’s poorest citizens when they needed help. Some say they’ve repaid us with crime, violence, and LEECHING THE SYSTEM. Last week Hurricane Katrina victims left FEMA trailers in shambles. Furniture was stolen and rooms were FILLED WITH HUMAN WASTE. Tonight! On Watchdog TerrorAlert HateMonger News!

I heard all that and thought, “Man, that’s kind of cold.”

Then, immediately after, kooky, carefree Zydeco music flows from my stereo. It’s another commercial, in which a Cajun-esque voice invites me to come on down to New Orleans and enjoy the (newly restored) atmosphere for which it’s famous.

Hmm. I bet that if the people who paid for that ad heard the one that immediately preceded it, they wished for a refund.

Meanwhile, they prevailing belief among my set is that all the rich people in New Orleans are probably happy that all their poor people are gone now. They’re gone, and they can’t afford to come back.

I don’t regret that Houston spent money on and made space for the evacuees that we took in. It was the right thing to do, and I’m proud that my hometown did it. However, I think rich people from New Orleans should consider visitng us and spending some tourism money here, instead of the other way around.

Or, you know–someone should plan the commercials better, at the very least.

Big, Wrinkled, Teenaged Girls

I hate it when supposed adults act like immature children. Especially when those adults are older than me. It makes me uncomfortable, and makes me embarrassed for them. Especially when their immature behavior takes place in a professional setting.

No specific story behind this–just a general weariness.

Big, Mean, Passive-Aggressive Public Service Announcement (Because, Apparently, That’s the Kind of Person I Am)

If you’ve semi-recently stopped being my friend (maybe because I told you I didn’t want to hang out with you anymore), then please, please, please don’t email me. Don’t leave me voicemails, and don’t write about me on your blog. Or, if you do choose to write about me on your blog, don’t take my reading it as a sign that I “can’t let go,” or that I want to have contact with you. I’m a human being. It’s human nature to be unable to resist reading blogs about oneself. Especially when the entries are completely deluded and disjointed from reality. You may check your referrer logs and see that I’ve been reading, yes. But it doesn’t mean I’m obsessed with you. It mostly means that I’m trying to gauge how psycho you’re likely to become.

I know that posting this here is passive-aggressive. Why post this for everyone to see and wonder about, instead of just telling the offender directly?

Because I don’t want to talk to her. Because I know she’s dying for me to talk to her. Hence the constant crazy blog entries, then contradictory, fake-friendly phone calls and emails. I’ve been through this before and know the routine. She will say or do whatever she can to make me speak to her, and then she’ll twist whatever I say into something bizarre that she wants to believe. Actually, in fact, I’m pretty sure that if the psycho is reading this right now, she doesn’t even think it’s about her. That’s how deluded she is.

So let me start again. New open letter: If you are the friend or spouse of someone who stopped being my friend, but who won’t stop talking about me, then please, please exert all your influence to keep her from contacting me anymore. Take everything she’s told you about me for the last five months, and apply your common sense to it. When she tells you that I used to like her very much, but something mysterious made me stop liking her, know that it was her creepy behavior. When she tells you that I’m a horrible, passive-aggressive, cowardly person because I “made lame excuses” for not wanting to hang out with her anymore, know that I tried to get away from her as politely as I could, with as few of her angry outbursts and veiled suicide threats as possible. When she tells you that I’m obviously disturbed, and that I “just can’t let go,” go back and read her blog entries about me from the last five months. And then check her cell phone records to see how often she’s called me since she first told everyone I was a crazy, mean bitch… even though I never call her. And then check her email and see that she emailed me just the other day, as if we were friends. As if she hadn’t spent the last five months publicly disparaging me and thanking God that she’s on antidepressants that help her cope with my evil, hateful behavior.

I’ve been waiting for this to be over for five freaking months now. That’s longer than our friendship lasted. How long do I have to wait?

Please, I’m begging you–tell her to leave me alone. If you can’t make her stop doing this–to me and probably to every friend she’s ever had–and if you can’t make her go to counseling, then please, at least make her stop emailing me. Whatever else you may think I deserve, I don’t deserve this. I don’t like constantly wondering, in the back of my mind, what she’s going to do next. I don’t like being unable to go places where she lives/works/eats without worrying at least a little that she’ll turn up and do something strange.

All I want is to be left alone. In exchange, I will continue not to tell mutual associates what your friend/spouse has been doing, and how effing crazy she is. Thank you.

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Posted in psychobabble, venting on 05/21/2007 10:58 am

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