Since I am STILL locked out from posting since January, I’ll post the offensive post and its responses for the entire world to see. They can all be found on this site — including the post that was repeatedly reported in response to Misty Mahan Datico — and were posted to FB some time in January. (Including below.) Enjoy.
Dear Facebook Community,
Apparently I have violated your standards and was locked out of my facebook account for 48 hours. And then some. Which translates to this: That twat waffle had me kicked off for two days. Now, I suppose I should start off with the levels of chicken sh-t that it takes to purposely spend your time gossiping about somebody and attempting to shame them on a page of people from their hometown — but only where you know that they can’t read it and defend themselves — but then report them to Facebook to have their post removed the minute they fired back. The immaturity of any 30 something year old reporting someone to Facebook has always left me speechless — but isn’t this scenario about like starting a fight with somebody in the school yard and then crying to the teacher when you get your a-s kicked?
What a little b-tch! What a b-tch move! I mean, I didn’t act like that in junior high. I think I had more maturity in kindergarten than these almost 40 year olds. Because I’m talking to Connie Confederate and her compadres.
But anyway, since I was reprimanded by Facebook, I thought maybe I should take a look at that. Maybe in being upfront, attempting integrity, and taking my beef directly to the person instead of gossiping about them behind their back like EVERYONE ELSE on social media,perhaps I have violated Facebook standard.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought up somebody being a parent, because people go ape sh-t when they say ” you’re talking about my children!” When in reality, you’re talking about their seeming inability to do their damn job. I’ve kept a lot of kids for a lot of people and I’ve never known one parent — except a few from Humphreys County — that has ever been that proudly immature, and I find it hard to believe that you can do your damn job when you’re still acting like you’re stuck in grade school.
I won’t pretend that when you get me angry I can’t throw some low blows. I’m a human, I’m prone to emotions, possible for me to be wrong. But I also know that I’m not a parent. I’m not a mother and unless I buy myself a little wide out from Africa or a little MLB slugger from the Dominican, I probably won’t ever be. Therefore when I see people conducting themselves in a manner that would be shameful for 14 year old girls — and they are a parent — I believe I owe the world, and your kid, a favor and to tell you to grow up and do your damn job! How hard is it to act like an adult when you have children? One thing I cannot stand and one thing I have little tolerance for, are people that have been entrusted with littles lives and they act like juveniles themselves! Groooooow up! Furthermore when there are people that bury their children every day and you have been given the gift of amazing medical technology that comes from living in the United States of America and you’ve been given the gift of being a parent, and given the gift of healthy precious babies, I can’t understand that kind of dissatisfaction at life — that kind of unhappiness with what you have — that you need to spend your time hating every word I say, but hanging out on my page, just to gossip about me — but only where I can’t see it, lest I show up on your doorstep and call your little butt out. How can you be so miserable with what God has given you, that you still need to spend your time trying to make fun of me for kicks?
So, no, I think the well known knowledge that you need to grow up and be an adult and ACT like an adult, instead of conducting yourself in an embarrassingly juvenile manner, is not only quite apparent — when you’re the one that initially put it on full display –but totally fair game.
Particularly, when you’re the one that started this! You don’t step in the ring with Ali unless you know you can box, and REPORTING ME TO FACEBOOK only tells me the extent to which I won this round, little girl.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have addressed that someone was a grown child of a low income family, but let’s be clear about this, there’s not one of us around here that didn’t grow up middle or low income. I’m child of a single mother — and by that I mean the father’s line on my birth certificate is intentionally blank and it’s one of the things I’m the most proud of — and you want to congregate on a page that houses SOME OF MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY with your minimum wage earning, yet think they’re Republican friends and gossip about me behind my back — but only where you have a Dickson County audience — because of my belief that everyone should get a fair shot in life, then I think the knowledge that you’re making fun of people like your own damn parents is fair game, as well. (I mean, how can you work fast food and think that you’re a Republican?)
Hell, even as a non-glamorous nanny, with the deed to my house and a peeling paint car title, my net worth is still more than some my age, and I don’t have enough to think I’m Republican, NEVER had enough damn money to think I’m Republican, so how the hell can you make minimum wage — and vote for the people that tell you that you don’t deserve a raise, you just need to work a little bit harder (while their pockets are full off your labor) — and think that you do. I don’t get that kind of willful ignorance — faux superiority complex, I suppose.
But then — here’s what really gets me — to spend your time talking about me because you don’t like the fact that I’m an in-your-face, well read Democrat. Chicks, my loud Democrat mouth is about the best friend a minimum wage hash slinger has got. You want to mock me for my politics, then I think acknowledging your shameless hypocrisy is fair game, too.
So again, what this all boils down to is that someone who wanted to start, on a few occasions, an online gossip fest about me can’t handle when I put her truth on blast. To which, after having me blocked, runs right back to talk about me! (Someone’s been trying to tell me these pathetically cowardly posts for awhile, I just wouldn’t listen. Thank you, friend!) And I thank God that I’ve never been that big of a little b-tch a day in my life! Because that is really, really sad, y’all. Really, reeeeally sad. I don’t care that you live to talk about me, only that you do so and then attempt to take away my right to blast back — that’s some work of an envious coward, right there. That’s ALL that is.
But here’s what I really need for you to pay attention to. When you grow up with an older brother who kicked your a-s every time you had something to say that he didn’t like — which was often — I don’t take suppressing my 1st Amendment right lightly. Particularly when you have been exercising yours all over town. So this is the part where you really need to lean in close. You’re not going to attempt to online abuse and bully me like that. You’re not going to manipulate social media where you go to a Dickson County page and have your say, gossiping about me behind my back, but then have my social media privileges taken away (like a second grader) when I fire back. Because there’s two things most people know about me — (1) I’m stubborn as a mule and (2) I don’t say things that I don’t mean.
So pay close attention: This had better be the last of my posts getting reported to Facebook — or somebody having my Facebook shut down — and this better be the last I hear from you. You better delete yourself and go away quick, and keep my name out of your virtual mouth. Because if don’t you like what I say now… if you don’t like me calling out your Confederate flag waving a-s online, wait till I call your Confederate flag waving a-s out in print. I keep a copy of everything I write before I copy and paste it to Facebook because my phone likes to eat things — so I could copy and paste the post you had deleted right now, in fact, I still might — but, I’m gonna ATTEMPT to let you off with a warning. (Truthfully, I’m so damn ornery, I feel like pasting it everyday for a month.) And that’s this — if you don’t like reading my words on here, wait till I put them in a Letter to the Editor via Dickson Herald. And you better know I mean every damn word.
You aren’t going to attempt to online bully me in front of Dickson County and think you’re going to take my say. You better go away and you better go away fast. You better not start one conversation about me on some Dickson County Facebook page after having me kicked off mine, or I will put this down in print and lay all your sh*t bare in your hometown paper. I think I make myself clear.
I mean, truly, skank bait, what would you and your gossip girls do — fire back? I feel like B.Rabbit in 8 mile in that I don’t live my life in denial, and I’ve never tried to be anything that I’m not. What are you going to tell these people that they don’t already know about me?
That my property taxes are always late? That I don’t like to brush my hair, that I just prefer to, sporadically, whack it all off and start over? That unless somebody in my family mows my yard anymore it doesn’t get cut? That my last boyfriend returned to drugs and ran off and I spent weeks thinking I was going to get the call to bury him like I did the last one? And that that, along with the two major deaths I suffered before him, and the inexplicable hell that loving a practicing or recovered drug addict is pushed me to the point that I fear intimacy? That I’d just rather die alone with my books and my cat? And my ball games.
Or maybe it’s that sometimes, yep, I wish I was African American since black people have such better muscle tone then we do, they don’t age like white folks, and black girls get to wear extensions in their hair. Yes, I love Barack Obama more than I love anybody I ever went to school with and I think black people kick a-s! What else? Let’s see, call me a “midget”? What could you possibly tell people that they don’t already know about me? So, the fact that you need to gossip about somebody and mock somebody that’s continuously mocking herself, tells me there has to be a whole lot of jealousy there. Tons.
You won’t win this war with me, so don’t wage it. As I said, keep my name out of your internet mouth, tell the skank sandwich that is your internet friends to stop trashing my family name — I have two nieces with that name — stay off my Facebook, and don’t you ever, ever, ever attempt to gossip about me on Facebook and then report me (like a fit throwing two year old) when I call your a-s out. But I bet you felt like you did something big! We ought to give your little two faced, fit throwing butt a cookie and a juice box, big girl! Because you can block me from my own Facebook, but you can’t block me from life. You will not bully me. Because even before “bullying” was a thing, I was the short girl trying to kick the a-s of the big ones for picking on the other kids who couldn’t stand up for themselves. And ain’t a thing changed just because you’re hiding behind the protection and anonymity of a phone screen.
I think we’re done here.
But since I couldn’t post what I intended to post the other day because whinybaby twatwaffle had me kicked off, I’ll post it below. I don’t expect to have to have this conversation again.
Last night I went home and laid there for hours, trying to sleep, wondering why it was that I got so mad. While I have a temper, I don’t have a short fuse. And while it doesn’t take much to get me to fly off at the mouth, it takes a WHOLE lot to actually get me mad. And I was pissed. Why?
It wasn’t the ridiculously juvenile actions of envious individuals. I’ve dealt with bitter resentments since the day my UncleChunky died — and his own brother tried to steal everything — and somebody thought I might have two damn dollars. So I’ve gotten pretty good at processing those. It wasn’t insults aimed in my direction. I shouldn’t have to be good at dealing with verbal put downs, but the sad fact of my life is that I just am. And I’ve heard better, more potent ones than any idiot on the internet can conjure up. Sticks and stones, b-tch. Sticks and stones. So, it wasn’t that either. It wasn’t even the cowardly attempts to gossip about me and shame me in front of a page of my hometown — but only where I couldn’t read it and defend myself. Knock yourselves out. It wasn’t that people who have beautiful families who should be busy appreciating their precious gifts are instead, sadly, concerning themselves with me and my words.
So what was it? I rarely breathe without critiquing myself over my own breath, so I was mad at myself for letting some little nothing and some little nobody anger me so damn bad. And then I knew, it was this…
The last screen shot that chick took and posted to start a gossip fest over me was one where I apologized. Nothing to do with anything that concerns her, but to be a smart a-s, she posted it (my apology for being rude) along with the b-tchy, snippy words “hell must’ve frozen over”. Which was an insinuation to the only correspondence I’ve had with anyone that ridiculous — whom, much like her like minds, I’d stopped addressing ages ago — over the confederate flag.
And that’s what lit me up. B-tch, don’t you ever intentionally misconstrue my words to even so much as give a impropriety of an indication that I am ever apologizing for a single thing I have ever said about that racist’s rag.
Don’t you ever. Ever. Evvvvvah! You want to gossip about me, knock your f–king self out. But don’t you ever even appear to give inclination that I ever regret any sort of attitude taken over that symbol of the biggest domestic terrorist organization in our nation’s history. Because you will anger me to unprecedented levels. And I do not like anger. While it moves me to some of the most magically magnificent diatribes I have ever composed, I don’t necessarily enjoy it.
And if you could find yourself in possession of the ability to read a book, instead of solely in possession of some “history lesson” you obtained from the back of an Alvin’s Island tshirt on Spring Break in Panama City Beach — where, I’m sorry, you’re really too old to even go — you’d know enough to be ashamed of that clothed mark of racism, as well. It’s skanky. It’s sad. And it’s a failure — if you wanna know the f-cking truth. It lost. As did the Confederacy.
And the United States is better for it. And the only reminder it serves now is a glaring symbol of the most embarrassing time in our nation’s history, as well as doubling as a pretty good indicator of who didn’t graduate high school and who comes from a family that still breeds with their cousins.
Don’t you ever, even for your own immature personal gain, attempt to twist my unrelated apologies to fit your bigoted, Confederate flag waiving narrative.
Now that I’ve inventoried myself and realized what it was that set me the hell off — because no skanky behavior ever has the power to make me that angry — I can sleep. It was that traitor’s battle flag and the attempts to insinuate my remorse. When it comes to that treasonous rag, I ain’t sorry for a damn thing. And I never will be.
Now run and tell that, b-tch.
(And I still think I should chunk books and Miranda Lambert lyrics and give writing hip hop a go. I do love the word b-tch. B-tch. )
A huge sarcastic thanks to Misty Mahan Dantico for her participation, here.