Archives For I will fucking cut you

We’ve been friends for a while now, right? And friends shouldn’t keep secrets from friends. At least, not this sort of secret. I should trust that I can be honest and open with you and that you’ll accept me.

It’s not easy to admit certain things, even when there’s no denying them. I’ve danced around the issue, I’ve deflected, I’ve misdirected. But in the end, the only person it hurts is me.

Sigh. This is so difficult, and I’m very uncomfortable. So please bear with me.

As many of you know, I’ve written a lot about being a New Yorker.

Well, the truth is, I don’t live in New York. In fact, I haven’t lived there for a while. For the past seven years, I’ve lived across the Hudson River. In…New Jersey.

There. I said it. I live in New Jersey.

A few bloggers already knew my shameful secret and kindly kept mum about it. Although I was mocked by one of them, who shall be nameless (but I’m looking at you, Mike Allegra), for not fessing up and embracing my residence in the Garden State.

But seriously, I can’t. I can’t embrace my residence here. I don’t care that Manhattan is literally a mile across the river from my apartment. I don’t care that it’s only a half-hour trip into the city. I don’t care that I still get to enjoy all that NYC has to offer. It pains me to live so close and yet so far away.

It’s a testament to Mr. Weebles that I uprooted myself from my beloved Manhattan, where I had a tiny, rent-stabilized apartment in Soho, and moved across the Hudson to be with him.

When I told my friends that I was moving to New Jersey, they all said, “Seriously? YOU???” I was fond of saying that 9/11 hadn’t made me want to move, and fuck you, Al Qaeda, the only way I’d leave NY was in a body bag. But ultimately the deciding factor was money; decent-sized, conveniently located apartments were a LOT cheaper in NJ than in NY. So I sold my soul and relocated to the mainland. The day I moved out of my apartment, I felt as if I were saying goodbye to my soulmate. Fortunately, Mr. Weebles understands my plight. He once told someone, “Every morning that she wakes up in New Jersey, a little part of her dies.” He’s not wrong.

A few years ago we were on vacation and someone asked us where we were from. Mr. Weebles said, “We’re from New Jersey” and I almost had a shit hemorrhage. I might live there, but I’m not from there. See, here’s a map of where I’ve lived:

The NY/NJ map according to me

It’s not that I have a hatred of New Jersey. I don’t. But I was born and raised in NYC and when I was growing up, Jersey was “over there.” The only reason anyone went there was for concerts or football games at the Meadowlands. Otherwise, it was flyover country. Or drive-through country. I had greater knowledge of world geography than of Jersey geography. You could tell me, “I’m from Vladivostok” and I’d know where it was. But if you said, “I’m from Morris Plains,” I’d stare at you blankly. Where the hell is that?

I can’t shake that mindset. I can’t help it. It’s not my fault; New York has always been about attitude as well as geography. Saul Steinberg wasn’t kidding when he created this map:

So for those of you tuning in from New Jersey, don’t take offense, and don’t start with me. Because I know where you live. Or, you know, I could easily find out if I looked on a map.

NYC isn’t what it used to be. It’s not as vibrant or as gritty as it once was and it suffers from extreme gentrification—I lamented over this last year. But I love the noise and the energy and the pace and the diversity and the subways and the dirt. I love the tap water. I love that so many places are open 24 hours—the city truly never sleeps. And as much as I loathe crowds, I need to be around them. When I set foot on NY soil after my commute, I feel better. I’m happiest in my native habitat. It makes sense to me.

So now you know my deep dark secret. And if you make fun of me for it, I’ll fucking cut you.

Fuck you, bullies

Madame Weebles —  October 17, 2012 — 218 Comments

NOTE: I had hoped to make this a regular Friday thing because I like the alliterative quality of Fuck You Friday, but I haven’t been able to stick to a regular schedule so far.  Therefore, I declare today to be Fuck You Fwednesday.
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Hey, assholes.  Yeah, you.  The scumbag who likes to belittle people.  The stuck-up bitch who trashes other chicks right to their faces.  The mean kid who makes fun of his classmates.  I’m talking to you.

You people are everywhere.  You’re a fucking plague.  I’ve read too many heartbreaking stories about children and teenagers being bullied for one reason or another.  Do you find it rewarding to pick on those who are smaller, weaker, or different?  Is it that much fun to gang up on someone and spread nasty rumors about them?  Does it truly satisfy you to taunt a person until they cry?  Or worse, until they have a nervous breakdown or commit suicide?  Do you think it makes you powerful?  It doesn’t.  It makes you vile subhuman filth.

The same goes for your adult counterparts. Internet trolls who get their rocks off by posting rude and insensitive remarks.  Facebookers, bloggers, and tweeters who target and mock others for entertainment.  Mean-spirited fucks who enjoy embarrassing their colleagues publicly.  Toxic bosses who are verbally abusive to their staff.  The foul vermin who bully their spouses or partners. What the fuck is your problem?  Obviously you haven’t grasped that you can’t become superior by cutting someone else down.  Here’s a news flash for you: not only does it not make you superior, it also makes you lesser people, you fucking cowards.

I was bullied when I was young.  I was shy and I was afraid of a lot of things.  I was also not an attractive child.  To make matters worse, I was the tallest one in my class, and the only one who had glasses and braces at the age of 9.  I may as well have had a bullseye painted on my forehead.  Terrible things were said to me.  My classmates teased me unmercifully.  Grownups made cruel, judgmental comments.  I was physically confronted by bullies a few times too, and it sucked.  Being a target because I was funny looking was bad enough; I can’t imagine how traumatic it is for kids who are victimized because of their color, religion, socio-economic level, or sexual orientation, or because of a handicap or other physical differentiation.

I’m not that shy, scared kid anymore.  As an adult, I feel very strongly about about confronting and stopping bullies.  You’re like cancers—you spread everywhere and you need to be cut off in your tracks.  I’m not a mother, and you should be glad about that because I would be your worst nightmare if you ever picked on my kid.  As it is, I am insanely protective of my friends and family.  If you take a potshot at someone I care about, I WILL COME AFTER YOU.  If you so much as say ONE WORD out of line about any of my loved ones, you will hear from me. I’m not kidding.

I don’t care if you had an unhappy childhood.  I don’t give a shit if you feel powerless and frustrated.  Under other circumstances, I might have compassion for you.  But if you choose to take out your misery and anger on someone with even less power, you forfeit any right to sympathy as far as I’m concerned.  Justifying your actions by blaming your home life or your upbringing makes as much sense as serial killers who target victims who look like their mother, or wife, or the first woman who ever dumped them.  The problem is YOU, motherfuckers.  Look at yourselves for a change, you spineless losers.  Look at what your actions have wrought.  Nothing good, right?  Think about that for a while.

Fuck you, you hate-filled jackals.  Fuck you and your twisted need to hurt others.  I don’t even have to wish ill on you—all I have to do is hope that you get what you deserve, because karma will be a vicious bitch.