Somebody actually wrote this

This was forwarded to me in an email. I’m not sure who it’s addressed to.

There is one thing that unites most people who don’t like me: they don’t want to see me. They don’t want to hear about me. They prefer, when this is possible, not not even talk about me. You’re reading my tweets. You take your time to write these message. You actually read the responses I give when I decide to reply. You’ve managed to make yourself look like a huge weirdo compared to ME - the weird gross furry.
It’s ok though, I completely understand. Maybe not why you’d focus on me specifically, but I understand why you can’t stop. Stopping would mean admitting this doesn’t work anymore. Everything you’ve done is in the proud tradition of shitty forums. And there - on that stage - these things WORKED! You could drive people out of the forum, or make them mad so that they would get banned. You could get ~cred~ for it. Most of all, it was really fun to do. I understand, friend. I’ve been there. But deep inside you a thought stirs: “what if it doesn’t work anymore?”. But why is that?
You are faced with this: people you don’t like are beyond your reach. They’ve moved to a horrible place where they decide what shows up on their timeline. If they choose, they won’t even let you see what they tweet. Your finely-crafted burns may get RTed by the in-crowd, but chances are that they will never ever reach the intended audience or in any way influence their timeline.
Then there’s ask.fm. This is even worse. To put your words in front of your target, you must relinquish all control over them. Either they will vanish into thin air with an effortless click, or the most desperate of your attempts will be displayed and mocked. Do you think I’m even writing these words for your benefit?
It doesn’t work anymore. But you can’t admit it. You can’t stop. Your pride, your attachment to a dead internet culture, drives you further into this personal hell. You return to your forum friends for moral support. They pat you on the back, but you can’t even be sure of their sincerity.
Your only out is to find a different target, and hope no one noticed you slink away. But even that is getting harder. One day there won’t be anyone left. You will sit in your posting palace, broken. On Twitter, you will put on a smile - try to make some jokes. But it’s hollow now.
The glory days are over, and a terrible new world is upon you. But it’s not welcoming you. The only message it extends to you is this:
Fuck you and die.

Oh, you mean WhitROW, not WhitLOCK.

Ben Whitrow’s the guy who plays Mr. Bennett on the 1995 Pride and Prejudice. That’s why I was confused. I mean, he’s not an overweight black dude, and I really don’t know how much he eats, but he definitely doesn’t talk about The Wire too much. In fact, they even have different first names. And the Bennett guy doesn’t talk about girls giving up the butt. Really, I don’t even know how these wires got crossed in the first place. Seriously, where is your head?

Ugh

Re: Tight-pantsed nerd rage about this thing.

If you can’t tell the difference between mocking cynical pageload-humping glurge exploitation of a tragedy from mocking the tragedy itself, maybe you might want to spend less time announcing to the internet your sighing pity for other people’s inability to feel things as profoundly and noticeably as you can.

Here’s my favorite recurring bit about ‘Going Clear’

It’s the fact that every few pages, Lawrence Wright writes a passage like,

[Scientology Leader] David Miscavige then punched and strangled a loyal underling.

which is immediately followed by “*” and yet another:

* - The Church of Scientology categorically denied that Miscavige punched and strangled the underling.

I bet they changed the wording each time just so it didn’t look like trolling.

Helping You Abuse Your Friends With Scientology:

Take these excerpts from pages 53-55 of Lawrence Wright’s Going Clear, which are private statements dictated by L. Ron Hubbard to himself, labeled Course I, and Course II, and sometimes called either “The Affirmations” or “The Admissions.”

Nothing, no one opposes your writing. You can carry on a wild social life and still write 100,000 words a month. Your writing has a deep hypnotic effect on people. You will make fortunes writing. You will live to be two hundred years old. You will always look young. You are not a coward. You have no fear of what any woman may think of your bed conduct. You know you are a master. You know they will be thrilled. You have no fear if they conceive. What if they do? You do not care. Pour it into them and let fate decide. You are a magnificent writer who has thrilled millions. You are psychic. You do not masturbate. Snakes are not dangerous to you.

Paste them to your Facebook page. Watch your friends get amped up about how cool and “random” the quotes are. Then tell them where the quotes come from. Make your friends feel bad about themselves.

You’re welcome.

Whenever I thought about high school, I used to feel bad for mocking this one guy.

I felt bad that he was the poorest writer on the newspaper staff.

I felt bad that even the sweetheart editor-in-chief gave up and just started referring to him solely by his last name.

I felt bad that his last name became a synonym for “dork.”

I felt bad that the vast majority of all other usages of his name were usually preceded by the words “shut up” and a comma, and that one of the most prominent of these usages was the screensaver on all of the staff computers.

I felt bad that he seemed to invite contempt and inspired no guilt.

I’d think of all these things and wonder what kind of casual monsters we all were, just because this poor sap was a ninny.

Then I found his Twitter feed and website and ahahahaha, seriously, fuck that dude.

About to submit an employment personals ad. Need a little help with the content.

CL > New York > jobs > writing jobs > Is Anyone Else Still ‘Curving the Bullet’?

Let me be your word assassin. I know Word, Excel and Krav Maga and live in a warehouse behind a steel hatch door. DD free, v. discreet. I can host day/eve. Your pic gets mine. No freaks.

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