READ ME ... yeah, right. Right?

I'm sick of everyone else having on-line diaries. I want one too.

What is this all about? Maybe you should read the READ ME READ ME.

september 17, 1996: my present to me.

"... the problem today: everyone wants someone to be their own ball of clay ... " .. ( who sings this? heard on KPOO, the Tupac Tribute show)

Dear phonies, fakes, foes, flakes, and other false friends:

I hereby banish you from my emotions.

You wish to see me fail, yet I care what you think about me.

You like to hurt me, and I give you the reaction you seek.

You distrust me, yet I give you my trust.

Seeing me down makes you feel up.

You bond with others over how horrible I am. That makes you feel popular and accepted -- part of a group. That makes me feel outcast and alone.

You reveal my confidences but I keep yours secret.

I want to tell you that I like you and miss you but you do not answer the phone.

I stir up emotions in you, sometimes, that make you feel uncomfortable. You get angry at me and lash out. But I am not, and was not, angry at you.

I compliment you and purposefully say things that I think will make you feel good. You never afford me the same courtesy.

You search out in me my faults, and ignore all the good sides. You generalize from the bad, and explain away the good as exceptions from the rule, even though the good outweigh the bad.

You project onto me your insecurities and chide me for displaying them.

You may respect me, but you never tell me so.

You NEVER tell me that you like my writing.

I frighten and threaten you. You make me small. You make me fictional.

You consider me pathetic for caring about what you think of me.

You revel in my failure, yet I still support you in your success.

I am not threatened by your successes. You are intimidated by mine.

I give you the benefit of the doubt. You assume I am evil.

I do not understand you. I assume that all people have good hearts because I do. You confound my world view of human nature.

If I let you get to me I lose. I get distracted from my goals which you are trying to kill; the kinetic energy with you seek to squelch; the potential energy you seek to minimize.

And I have lost enough already.

It is my turn to win.

Thus, I h e r e b y b a n i s h y o u .

I wish you no harm. I wish you only the acknowledgment that you are hurting me. This acknowledgment will probably have little impact on you. You have already morphed me into an unemotional nonreal being. You, like most other humans, have little problem harming things that you have already dehumanized.

Nice trick.

I cannot give you the morality that you lack. I cannot give you the compassion that you do not seek. I cannot give you the humility or the strength of character that are beyond your limits of insight.

But I can -- I swear I can if I try -- kiss you farewell.

And that is the goal I need to pursue.

Because while I focus on the heartache you bring me, I neglect the true friends who are on my side and support me.

And although there may not be many more of them than they are of you, their power is more true and effective.

I hereby wrap you up in wax, strangle you with wick, toss you into the fire, and watch you burn. I turn on my fan and shoo your stench out the window. I play NWA so loudly that I cannot hear you whine and cry. And Sister Souljah screams: "Fuck all you white people! That's right all of you!" And my vision begins to restore itself.

I emerge free of you and your malice.

As Kristin Diamond says, "Being mature means understanding that no one can walk over you."

And I say, "farewell." I deserve better.





or, if you must, back to Rebecca's Revenge

Copyright 1996 Rebecca Eisenberg All rights Reserved.