About those social media stalkers…

When I was a little girl a calico cat showed up at my uncle’s house and I begged him to let me keep him. He did, of course.
I named her Mahtob.  You can imagine how that went down when he took her to the vet to get fixed.

When the vet asked how to spell Mahtob, which he always pronounced MAH -ta, he admitted that he didn’t know. My uncle, never one to make a clerical mistake, used the vet’s phone to call to the house to see how you spell Mathob.  I told him. The veterinary assistants wanted to know where I got the name from. I told them — the movie “Not Without my Daughter” with Sally Field.  It’s Iranian, I said. If my white, southern, devoutly Christian uncle or Dr. Whalen found it odd for a 5th grader to name a cat after a Muslim, they didn’t say.

Anybody that ever played with me growing up knew that I had a chunk of Burns Church of Christ checks that were no longer valid so we got to play with them. And almost every girl that ever made her way to the Burns Elementary came to Uncle Chunky’s to play bank. Along with the paper money my uncle made me — y’all remember that? When my uncle sold the house shortly after my aunt passed and bought the condo that would eventually become mine — after a five-year court battle courtesy of Andy Jackson — we were cleaning out the stand-alone dishwasher that sit at the end of the kitchen cabinets that my uncle refused to use. Apparently, I  had turned this into my ” safety deposit box” sometime in elementary school and forgot about it.  Inside were deposit slips that I made up with various white sounding names;  deposit slips for a Yoko Yamaguchi, which was, I’m assuming, a combination of the only two Japanese names I knew; and one from Mr. Jerome Lewis, which I’m guessing was a shout out to black people and since almost everyone black that I knew was from Burns and named Lewis,  I went with that.

The foundation of who I was was laid long before some of you started hating me, back before you knew you were supposed to love Andy Jackson just because you thought it would piss me off, long before everybody and their Menthol smoking granny suddenly became a political scholar by osmosis overnight, back when you were still asking things like what are you going to school for? Back when I said things like, political science, and you still answered, eww, gross, why?  And back when you were still having drinks with me in the bar, or sitting with me at lunch, or riding home with me from Sonic because you didn’t have your own car and I was always kind enough to give people a ride.  Back before a black man walked into the Oval Office and you knew that you were suddenly supposed to hate me simply because I’ve been spent a lifetime studying something that that you suddenly decided to “follow” — if  follow is the word we’re using to say parroting right-wing talking points that makes no sense at all. So I still encourage friends and family members to not waste your valuable energy or precious time fooling with the type of people so pathetic that I can mind control them with a simple post. If somebody is the type of weak that I can make myself the topic of their conversation by just posting a few words, please do not spend your time concerning yourself with anything that they say about me. Trash is as trash does, and trash is all up over the internet.

I’ve written many times before that I was always blessed to be loved when we were growing up. I was blessed with no shortage of accolades when we were kids. (And I still love everybody for it — genuinely love everybody, even when I have to tell them off. I was blessed to have a wonderful childhood and I don’t forget friends, or turn on them, that easily.) I was blessed to have a positive outcome in a number of task I wanted to take on (usually in the form of student body elections), I was blessed with having friends from all groups. Elected class officer every year — out of class of 500. Student body elected cheerleader in Jr High. Most Dependable. Best All Around. 

And there’s no better testament to the level of which I was nice than that the fact that I was — WOOOOOHOOO,  this is big-time y’all, ha! — Miss Congeniality in Dickson County fairest of the fair (and second runner-up, thank you very much). I’ve spent the last decade-and-a-half keeping everybody else’s kids, not because I made an insane amount of money off of it but because I wanted to. In fact, for some of those kids,  I never even charged. And yet now we’re all supposed to believe the allegations that suddenly we all just woke up one day and I was a bitch.

No, we all woke up and our president was black. 

And yet these “friends” that take to social media to stalk me  or these skeezes that I don’t even know that get their kicks on a Facebook gossip page because they’re all the kind of pathetic that obviously doesn’t have anything exciting going on in their own lives — possibly even something as small as unsupervised visitation with their kids, or home ownership — so they spend their time creating venues to talk about other people online. While they’re cashing their year long federal unemployment checks, posting pictures of their license plate with “disabled” tags (I’ve never considered myself “disabled” in my life and I probably actually could be), or posting about ongoing litigation over “Workman’s comp” because their husband is too busy driving around to various Walmart’s to stockpile ammunition because he’s still waiting for Obama to come for his guns instead of getting a damn job, while posting  about how “Democrats want people to live off the government.”

Wait, how’s that again?

The ones that do seem normal, did seem seem to be normal, the ones that used to be nice until Facebook turned them into a miserable coward of a bully, seem to be plagued with overwhelming resentment at everybody that’s not overweight or ugly. (Or at those of us that sometimes fight hard to try to battle against both.)

One girl is pretty — she’s the one that thinks my opinions are shit, or something to that nature. And that’s funny,  because I thinks she’s a whore — so let’s just call it a day!  Now, I’m not saying she’s a ho… I’m just saying I hear she’s had more balls bounced off of her than a golf course. So maybe she shouldn’t worry so much about me? Unless slut is the new black and nobody told me.

I mean, other than that, it’s easy to look at their profiles and say, “Oh,  I’ll see what these people are really mad about… their lives,  themselves.”

Just not a very attractive bunch. Although a few of their regular “conservatives” have at least, when I’ve ran into them on FB,  been able to spell right. And that’s new. Props for that.

There’s another pretty girl, a really pretty girl.  And that’s the one that’s got more problems than the rest of them combined.

I guess it’s easy to filter life through social media and alcohol, and say, “haha everybody loves me because I’m so funny!” 

And “haha everybody hates her!”  Because,  white people.

Yes, everybody loves you because you’re cute and you make them laugh. So does a f*king clown. But other than that, what purpose does it serve?

We’re almost 40 years old and if your children are almost grown and you’ve spent their entire childhood drunk, why don’t you deal with that and, instead of acting like a two-faced overgrown coward and bullying people online,  fix your life? I don’t run into legal trouble and then delete my account so that nobody can give me back the shit I’ve been giving them behind their backs. And I don’t change my name multiple times on social media like a lot of these stalkers over the years.

A lot of them do that.

As someone that’s already been down that road and who has always been the kind to never previously judge you
for having children and not being at home with them every night,  for falling off your barstool instead of being at their ball games, and who was always quick to tell you that you can do it, and that there is a better way (because there is a better way), it’s funny that some you choose to gossip about the one who always held on the hope that someday you would get it right.

Simply because you’re partial to a white trash sign of treason.

By the grace of God and some really great people, it’s been 10 years since I’ve touched a bottle. But even when I was drowning my own pain and starving myself and pouring drink down my throat,  I was never the type of oblivious that I focused more on somebody else’s opinions — on their writing,  on their work —  than I did what was wrong with my own life.

Why so much envy over someone you don’t know or someone you haven’t seen in years?

You know,  it’s not that original for someone to hate on me over petty things  like the fact that I drove 3 new cars by the time I was 21 and they were all paid for with a check, while they were either stuck living at home or spitting out kids just to get some man to come along and take them away.  That resentment met me right in my face the minute I moved back to Dickson County.

Maybe it’s bitterness over the fact that I’m the kind of strong the that would rather live without lights than sleep with an old man to pay my rent.  Maybe they’re mad that I fought Andy Jackson all the way to the highest court in our state and I won.

Maybe they’re mad over the fact that I’ve been in courtrooms enough; spent tens of thousands of dollars in a legal battle to defend what was already mine;   been the target of municipal PDs that follow you around because they think you might be good for a court cost enough;  was targeted enough by a whack job from Humphreys County that was trying to throw the TBI off the fact that when my ex-boyfriend of seven days allegedly put a bullet through his brain while at her house and she couldn’t give a straight answer to the TBI,  she had me arrested for “harassment” multiple times to throw the TBI off her tail until the court ordered her to stay away from me or be locked up in jail; been someone whose life has been a miniseries and I’ve come out on the other side of it all; beaten everything that’s ever tried to beat me ENOUGH TIMES — that yeah, I don’t track down custody cases that are none of my business and actually show up there at the courthouse and try to make friends with people involved (when I’ve got no business being there) because I know that sane people, decent people, people who had a stitch of an upbringing don’t go to court unless we hold a law degree or a damn subpoena. 

Because I’ve been through it enough. (Plus I was reared with manners.) Sorry if your life has been so uneventful that you have to try to create drama — even if it means creating a group
Facebook page to do it. 

Is that your problem with me? I’m strong enough to stay standing and you’re silly enough to put yourself in places where you don’t belong in a demonstration to all of us that you’ve, obviously, never really had anything attempt to knock you down — and then brag about it?

There were about three people in town and that actually cared about Sonya McCaul, and not just choosing a side or making a show, and none of them were on any of these Facebook pages. And whether you agree or disagree with where she ended up, anybody that believes that the way Andy Jackson went about that transition was the right way — is just wrong. Full stop.

And if you dislike me because of my penchant for saying that,  f-ck you and get a hobby.

I don’t know what they’re mad about and I really don’t give a damn over the root of it. Because no matter where I’ve been in my life,  I figured out the content that the Bible talks about. 

How to be content — not happy,  but content — in any and all things;  with or without; in good and in bad.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t an automatic. And I don’t practice it everyday. I drove through four states to get it, moved back and forth between two college towns, starved myself some years, ran a lot of some others, drank a lot in between.  Shopped a lot, prayed a lot, read a lot.  Fought a lot. And finally figured out that contentment is internal.

And through it all, I’ve always been a kind, generous, genuine — and, yes, good — person. I’m so convinced of that, in fact, that I’m not shy about saying that it’s clear that I’ve probably been a lot better person than most of them. Not financially, not physically, not materially, but spiritually. Spiritually I’m a better person than the type of people that would bully somebody they don’t even know, and do it in front of an audience — and that’s what their real resentment is about.

You’re miserable,  you’re weak, and you’re the type of shallow and simple that I can control by  typing a few certain words, sitting back and waiting,  and you come running like a f*cking  dog with a bone.  I can make myself the topic of your conversation in 6 seconds flat with a couple of keystrokes — you are baited that easily. And at times,  I’ve enjoyed doing it.

Maybe you’re mad that my Uncle Chunky always loved me, took care of me —  spoiled me with a new car when I was 16 and now, ha,  I’m currently driving a hand-me-down from my mom,  in my family,  yes,  we love and take care of each other — and you’re still waiting for your male role model to come back and whisk you off to Disneyland. I can’t help you with that.

I can’t help you if your resentment is based on your close-minded life experience of sitting around in low income housing or single wides, being pissed at everybody you thought got new school shoes, braiding other white people hair, talking about “n*****s” and waiting for your mom to finish sewing your new dress she stiched straight from  the Confederate flag, and my white liberal existence is blowing the roof off of your “history” — and that pisses you off. I can’t help you with that, either.

What I can help you with is pointing out that some of the people on that Facebook page gossiping about me have admitted taking their children school clothes shopping at a donated clothes bank and then bash me for being a person that subscribes to the political party that believes a poor person deserves a hand up and not an insult or a lecture (from people getting “handouts” of their own).  Hell,  maybe none of these stalkers had
parents to teach them how to behave like decent adults. Maybe their mothers were too busy battling her own addictions or being a whore to bother teaching them how to behave better than that.

And yes, I just threw a yo mama down. Cause I can “yo mama” better than any white person.

I  guess I can’t help them with that either.

The only help I can offer is stating that their jealousy is so blatantly obvious.

And that everyone on these gossip pages should do something with their lives besides striving to weigh 515 pounds or f-ck every man who’s willing to pay in Dickson.

So, FB “friends,” I know what you’re doing, what you’re saying, it’s just that I don’t care other than to tell you that there’s going to come a time when your cute and witty alcoholism is no longer fun. And rolls over into sad. I actually think we hit that mark about a decade ago. Maybe worry about that instead of me.

I’ll never care enough to address the ones I don’t know, I just thought this was worth saying to the ones that I do.

I also wonder if I need to start naming more names,  or if you’re just going to be adult enough to stop copying and posting, use your delete button and go away.

If I don’t call you out, it’s because I once had enough respect for you to always hope that you would do better for your self. I actually used to really like a few of you.

And honestly,  mainly, because I think you, one such stalker, have really amazing children who greet me with kindness and call me “ma’am” every time I see them. You may not care enough about my nieces to not trash my name on a Facebook page, but I do care enough about your children to not do the same to you.

And I can’t stress that enough — how hard it is to want to light somebody’s ass up and think they have really, really amazing children who deserve better than that at the same time. I guess that’s where that whole being the better person comes in thing, huh?

We should be done here and I don’t expect to have to have this conversation (or get phone calls about some you) again.

Oh, and as I said before, it shows through my blog every time somebody shares them on Facebook, dumbasses.


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