I know I’m the type of person that finds humor in everything. Even something as simple as popping in the store to get some cat food and accidentally wandering down the pasta aisle gives me the giggles. And it’s because I couldn’t stop thinking about that twatwaffle that cyberstalked me. Particularly after finding out that she went to the extent to go on Twitter and create an account just so she could scroll through my Twitter profile and screenshot my Twitter posts to paste on a group Facebook page (The Dickson Scene). Of course she’d been doing this long before she started reporting me to Facebook, but I just now found out the depth of her obsession with me — and I can’t stop laughing about it.
Here’s what that has to do with pasta.
One of my best junior high friends’ parents were from India. A sweet, sweet family who I spent many nights with. She even came to live with me one summer at MTSU when she was in from Boston. That’s where I learned that, in India, they don’t break the spaghetti before they put it in a pot. It’s a superstition — sort of like not opening a umbrella indoors — and it’s supposed to bring bad luck. To this day if I cook pasta or see somebody cooking pasta, I tell them that they can’t break it before they put it in the water. It’s just sort of respect to a sweet childhood friend and a shout-out to the Mani family and their customs and way of life before they came to America.
That’s just who I am.
And I’ve already written about naming a cat after a Muslim in elementary school. (True story — a Calico.)
That’s what gives me the giggles about the cyberstalkers — Misty Mahan Dantico, Joey Hilliard, Carla Tummins Howell (even the whacked out Woodard couple who I’ve never even met, talk about pathetic) — over the years. Is that three of them I’ve known since junior high.
Now, they advocate that their unreasonable, unprovoked, and insane hatred of me has nothing to do with the race of the president — of course. Nor, they shout, is it a derivative of their seemingly illiterate and obviously white trashed obsession with the clothed mark of slavery and segregation. It’s just that I’m an ignorant, crazy bitch.
Except that I’ve been this “ignorant” crazy bitch for the duration of my existence. And it didn’t bother them until we got a black president.
So they undermine their own argument with their repetitive, blatant acts of stupidity.
Even when I’m down on myself, even when I doubt every aspect of my life, I can see something like spaghetti noodles and remember how I have a life history of respecting cultures and learning about different people. And I can remember these racist bigots that try so hard to pretend they’re “not racist,” and how they prove exactly how racist they are the minute they begin obsessing with me — all because of a black president!
And I smile.
Then I giggle.
You can’t make this shit up!
Psychotically skanky juvenile tactics driven by the extreme hatred of this nation’s Commander-in-Chief, when not stress inducing, has been such entertainment for me.
I assume cyberbullies set to try to make me feel bad about myself, but all they do is make me feel reeeally glad I’m not them.
And they really, really humor me. It must be so hard to live a life like that.