I am a writer. No, seriously, I am. Just as having a camera doesn’t make someone a photographer, having a pen or a laptop does not make anyone a writer. Being a writer is an immeasurable amount of work. It requires an understanding of language, grammar, composition and having the organized yet creative brain to put all these ingredients together.
But perhaps my just saying that I’m a writer isn’t enough for the skeptic lurking inside your brain. Possibly my awards, published works or the crowds which I have performed for over the last two decades still aren’t going to convince you. Maybe, just maybe, even the money I’ve made isn’t enough to squash that tiny voice in your head which insists that a girl with a stupid name could never be a “writer”. Okay, I’ll give in to your inability to take my word for it. In the early 90s I didn’t believe that I should be called a writer either. My minuscule ego at the time presumed that I needed more awards to validate my title. That’s when David Foster Wallace came into my life. He assured me that not only was I a writer, but that I was already quite good. If you are unaware of exactly who David Foster Wallace is, then we probably shouldn’t have this conversation. You’re really not in a position to question whether or not I am a writer. I’m sorry, but it’s true.
Now that we have established that I am a writer, let’s move onto the topics up for discussion. Am I a “douche bag”? Glossing over the fact that douchebag is one word and not two, I’ll admit that I had to look up the technical function of this item. For those of you non-writers out there, to say someone is an intimate object is a metaphor. I know metaphors quite well, they are a staple in both my poetry and prose. I have even taught workshops on similes and metaphors. So, am I metaphorically a douchebag? One would think there is validity in this statement. It’s been used in conjunction with my name over 30 times on Twitter and is posted multiple times on a “blog” and the Facebook pages of that blog’s owner. Granted, one wouldn’t have to go far to reach the conclusion that over 100 tweets in 48 hours resembles more of a psychotic temper tantrum than a person stating facts, but the question has now been raised.
A douchebag is a part of an apparatus used to irrigate the vagina. Its function is to rid the canal of unwanted fluids or materials. Those things which a woman’s body is unable to dispel on its own or which the woman wants removed more quickly than her reproductive system can do naturally. Upon reading this I cannot see how my being the douchebag would be a negative. If I am indeed a douchebag then the person who is “using me,” so to speak, has waste or other vile things which she needs removed from herself, and is unable or unwilling to remove them without me. Again, try as I might, I cannot see how my unwillingness to help someone who will not help themselves could possibly be an insult to me.
Let’s move on to another frequently used word in conjunction with my name: “cunt”. I know some of you out there may not like this word, but I am fully qualified to use it. Don’t forget, I am a writer. I am well-educated on language and I can assure you that, while words have power, they only have the power you give to them. As the great Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” So let’s get past the cringing that is usually associated with the word and take a closer look at its meaning.
A cunt is the same thing as a vagina. Wait a second, I’m starting to sense a theme here. My name was used alongside “douche bag” over 30 times, and in conjunction with “cunt” well over 50 times. Coincidence? You decide. Coincidence or not, I am well aware of what a cunt is. I’m a girl. I’ve always been a girl. I don’t think that anyone would be shocked to know that I am not a virgin, especially since I am also a mother. There are a variety of uses for a cunt, and since I have given birth, it’s fair to assume that I have participated in just about every one of them.
Again I find myself unable to see the validity in the metaphor. While I have a cunt, I am not “a” cunt. But even if I could somehow stretch my mind around this poor attempt at creative writing, I still wouldn’t presume that being a cunt is a bad thing. It is the source of life for mammals. Offspring are created when a female is inseminated through the cunt and, after gestation, the newborn arrives naturally out of the same orifice. In humans, the cunt gives a great deal of pleasure to a male’s penis, so it’s a fair assumption that heterosexual males are pretty big fans of the cunt as well. I know three people who were born as males yet they want a cunt of their very own and are undergoing the process to obtain one. Some of my favorite males and females not only speak highly of cunts they’ve encountered, but are constantly seeking out new cunts to become acquainted with. Like I said, metaphors are hard to make when a person isn’t really a writer. Given the all capital letters and multitude of exclamation points attached to the words “douche bag” & “cunt,” my guess is that these were supposed to be inflammatory and hurtful words. But obviously they are not.
Finally, the accusation that I lie on twitter. First, if you read any of the mostly nonsensical ramblings that have been posted about me in the last week and a half, you may have not counted well over 50 uses of this word in reference to me. I did, but I am operating on the theory that the hissy fit this woman was throwing caused her to have a great many typos. I do not think at any time she intended to call me a “lair”. Then again, given the other sad attempts at metaphors, I may be wrong.
It has been said that I lie about my whereabouts when I post things on Twitter. Brace yourself: this accusation is true. Yes, true. My Twitter persona is not me. She is a character which I created. Remember, I’m a writer. I do not post about my real life online. My persona is sweet, kind, witty and intelligent, she also lives in the bushes outside Steve Martin’s Twitter account. So yes, I lied. Steve Martin’s Twitter account is not a physical place, therefore it cannot have bushes, let alone a skinny poet living inside those bushes. While I have met Mr. Martin, I have not ever hidden in his hall closet or his kitchen cabinets. And while I have been on the tour bus that he shares with Steep Canyon Rangers, I have never curled up inside the glove compartment, duct taped myself to the undercarriage or stowed away with the carry-on luggage. When I went to see the Rangers’ show with Mr. Martin, I did not climb into an unattended air vent, crawl into Nicky Sanders’ fiddle case or have to be restrained by security. In addition, while I have been at the same venue with Rosanne Cash and did in fact do a video interview with her, she and I never hung out at a party at Gracie Manor together. Since we did not actually both go to that event, we were obviously not really dressed as vegetables that nite and I did not steal a set of china from Gracie Manor before sneaking into the governor’s SUV.
I know some of you may feel betrayed that I misled you with my treachery. I can only say that I am heartily sorry to have taken advantage of your naïveté in such a way. I assure you that from here on out I will continue to lie to you online about my whereabouts. Oh yes, I will continue. Why? Because I am a writer, it’s what I do. I don’t typically post about my personal life because it isn’t anyone’s business. My current situation is a prime example of that. Some people are completely without morals, ethics or common sense. There are those who are too full of paranoid delusions and perpetual lies to see that only they have the power to change themselves and their situation. That the rambling, hate-filled, easily disproved nonsense they are spewing only makes them look emotionally and mentally unstable.
So, am I a “douche bag,” “cunt” and a “liar”? As with any other determinations in your life, only you are capable of making that assessment. As for me, I have my answers. Based only on the over 100 tweets, the magistrate determined that laws have been broken. This not only garnered a warrant for the arrest of the “tweeter,” but also an order of protection for me. Those tweets were also easily conclusive enough to be considered libel. Libelous statements are the death of anyone who wants to consider themselves a writer. I know this, because I am a writer.
update. while my cyberstalker has said that the warrant was issued recently based on my “lies”….it was in fact issued on september 26th. the twitter attack in question was still online & contrary to her conspiracy theory, the magistrate does not want anything other than physical proof. i was urged to go ahead with the warrant by a police officer when he read the threats she made online. to date she has written two blog posts about me, called my work to try to have me fired & has bullied & abused my friends online….in addition, of course, to continuing to write lies & libelous statements about me whenever she has the chance. an interesting coincidence is that to the right of her blog page she has the definition of “cyberstalking” & her threats of prosecution if anyone dares to try that with her.
as of right now, i have 250 mb (in 213 files) of libel & slander….also included in there is written documentation & correspondence with her which disproves every single claim she has made against me.