I don't have to explain my art to you

Well.
I've done it again.

After months without writing, without a word to share with the world, I come back full force with one of my bitch fueled rants aiming to entertain and mock the uptight prisses of Facebook Portlandia.
Unsurprisingly I piss off hundreds of people.
Well, not so much hundreds as fives, of tens of people.

I'm a pretty big deal.
I got deleted by at least THREE people.

How awesome is that??

The best part is that they read my blog.
I don't know why but that always feels like a giant compliment from people that dislike me.
You have to genuinely give a damn to take the time to read my grammatically incoherent, politically incorrect, self worshiping chatter, ES-PE-CI-ALLY if we're not even friends.

I don't take the time to look at the Facebook pages of the folks I love and adore let alone the assholes I don't even remember friending.

So my Facebook wall became the chat room debate for Team Resa Fucking Rocks or Team Fuck Resa's Rocks.
My Double D's have often been a source of contention.

But I decided things had gotten a little out of hand after one girl commented, her panties in a twist as though I personally insulted her to her face and she must be lying about going to the same high school as me since I'VE. NEVER. HEARD. OF. HER. and after another girl I've known since elementary school wrote a comment so long instead of taking up approx. 2 inches of space, like most Facebook comments do, it was at least 8 inches long and that is just always too damn long when anyone is trying to fuck you.

Ahuh.


So I pondered my overwhelming propensity for ruffling people's feathers and wondered why any of them cared in the first place.
We're not 16 anymore.
Things people say about us shouldn't be SOOOO IMPORTANT.
It's not like these are co workers or friends I see on the weekends.
All of them are people I haven't seen in YEARS and their anger was so violently passionate you'd think we were ex lovers.

Break my heart and then read what I have to say about you.
That'll keep me bitching for months.


And I realized something.

The reason these people cared so much, the reason they all got on their huffy bikes and took their crayons elsewhere to practice their lower case letters is because we knew each other in high school.
We knew each other when everyone was tortured and horribly insecure and scarred from not getting asked to prom or getting cast in the school musical.
The digs from old fellow classmates run deeper than some frigid witch you've known a year because she knows nothing of the flat chested pimply faced flute playing virgin you were your entire high school career.
People that know your past, however superficially, are threatening.


Which is why my big, uncensored mouth seemed so terribly vicious when anyone who is actually in my life knows my mercilessly honest, insulting and vulgar writing personality is tongue and cheek and meant to entertain and induce laughter, not to be taken in earnest.
Imagine the sincerity of Chelsea Lately and that's about me when I'm writing.


I'm hilarious and anyone that doesn't like me is a fucktard.
That pretty much sums up my life philosophy.


But the greatest part of this whole experience is being reminded that what I say MOVES people.
I instill such a strong reaction that people either love me or hate me.
No beige vanilla bullshit here.
Probably explains why I never remain friends with my exes.
Because if you're not madly, passionately in love with me you're running for the hills.
And gossiping about me on your own Facebook page.

Maybe I'm even closer to that New York Times Best Seller than I thought.