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- Everything is just around the corner - it's the angle of the sunlight and a certain something in the air. You couldn't tell by the number on the thermometer, of course - it got to at least 90 today - but fall is just around the corner. It makes me want to do things and write things and get things ready and put things away. It's time to get mums, it's time to do the dishes and organize the bookshelves. It's time for baseball games and outdoor movies, it's time to read books. My internet hasn't been working and I'm easily distracted by other things but I've wanted to type something because fall is looking over my shoulder. Why my paper journal won't do, I don't know. Why my typewriter won't do, I don't know. Notebooks aren't right either. It's the internet I have to type on. I will type all these things soon enough. First things first. Then we can move on. -------- It's September 2007. I started typing here in September 1999. That would be eight years ago. This hardly needs pointing out and I don't mean to offend your intelligence or sensibilities but I'm going to type it anyway: there is a certain semblance of anonymity here - for all of us - and if that breaks down the whole thing goes. This is not to say that we don't know each other. We do, in a way, from what we read about each other, what you read about me here and what I read about you wherever you write (if you do). Additionally, I've corresponded with many of you in non-diaryland contexts and etc. Most people - most of us in the world - are perfectly fine and dandy and nice and normal and I don't mind most of you knowing what you know about me. Recent breaches of security give me pause. (I don't know why I'm writing so stiffly.) Look. You know things about me, you might know where I live and what I do and what my name is. You - most of you - are fine and dandy and nice and normal and you've found out those things through non-psycho ways (such as the aforementioned non-diaryland interactions, or from what I've written here [and it's not too hard to figure things out]) and I don't mind at all. But not everyone is fine and dandy and nice and normal and here is what I will say about that. 1. The fuck if I'm going to stop writing here. 2. The fuck if I'm going to put a password here. 3. I don't appreciate sycophantic or chivalric messages or comments. I am not impressed, don't try to impress me. 4. The picture is Lynda Carter. Does this even need to be said? Once I might not have reacted this way to some sycophantic chivalric comment but this is the way I react now. Subtle threats: the other week at the radio station the previous DJ had had an angry caller and she was scared. She tried to downplay it - she said he hadn't made any specific threat so it was probably nothing. But she was so scared she was ready to call 911 when I walked into the studio if I'd been a male she didn't know. I said, if you feel threatened, it was threatening. You can't take your safety for granted, and you can't take the sanity of other people for granted. Threats disguised as sycophantic chivalric comments neither impress nor delude me. I know what they are and I refuse to be forced into a password-protected closet. I don't know if I should even be addressing this, because by doing so it makes it an issue when it could have just disappeared and gone away. But do you remember why I decided to take self-defense classes at Home Alive? Stalkers fucking piss me off, whether they're cyberstalkers or old-fashioned in-person stalkers. Fuck those asshats, they piss me off and I refuse to be cowed by veiled manipulation. (If you are not an asshat, and hopefully you aren't, this is not directed at you, and really, I apologize for offending your intelligence and sensibilities. However, if you are an asshat or are thinking about becoming an asshat, fuck you and please go away.) Okay. Now that that's taken care of and there are no longer any asshats here, onward and upward.
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