Dear You (specifically),
Thank you for reading. It's nice to know that you care so much you'd visit. Karibu! :)
I know we have our, let's say, personality incongruences. I know that we're not friends, per se (that's Latin), and I'm fine with that. I also know that you can't help but talk shit on Bill and I behind our backs. Believe it or not, I'm fine with that, too (well... I don't quiet understand your problem with him beyond some sort of childish, eww-he-has-Maria-cooties perspective, but from this group, that's not out of the question). I'm fine with all of this.
What I'm not fine with is your ignorance to the fact that not everyone has chosen some sort of side in your passive-aggressive little game. It's totally cool with me if you have to vent to and amongst each other about Bill and I. Please, do. Say anything and everything you wish to. Hell, call us pederastic terrorists if it makes you sleep easier at night. Maybe this is just some manifestation of something you need to get out of your system when confronted with folks like us. Just don't be so pigheaded as to believe we don't have friends here, too; that it doesn't come back to us to form what, for you, becomes quite the awkward backdrop while you try to feed us your sugary-sweet "hello"s and jaunty waves. It's one thing to know that you're putting on this juvenile production--a big enough clue was the night-and-day sea change in your behaviours all at once (subtle)--but to force me to have to pay you the eye-contact I grant everyone who speaks to me and watch every painful second of your sophomoric little "teehee this is like, soooo clever" gears spinning, while we both know what's going on, that's embarrassing.
What I'm getting at is this: Knowing what kind of sewage pours from your mouth when I'm not around only serves to put me in the awkward position of having to take part in the sad, forced duet you for whatever reason choose create when you pretend to be friendly towards me throughout the day. Of course, well-intentioned, whole-hearted friendliness isn't what I'm criticizing, and I've painted a pretty clear picture by now of the fact that I'm more than willing to be cordial with those who have wrecked any semblance of my respect for them. This is about the adolescent, let's-pretend song and dance I have to put up with for the past long, several days.
I graduated high school nine years ago; the juvenile whinings of sophomoric social tourists isn't something to which I wish to return. If you have a problem with some integral part of my personality, grow up and talk to me about it like and adult and be prepared for a two-way conversation. I can handle it, but if you can't, that's not my problem. Better people have disliked me, and I must say, with far more class.
I pride myself on my grasp on passive-aggression, so much so that I don't feel this situation deserves it. So here, I hope you enjoyed my passive-passive attempt to let anyone [with itchy enough interest to make her/his way to my blog on the regular] know my feelings (See kids, it's passive-passive because I'm not approaching the situation aggressively, and I'm not addressing any person directly or indirectly, and I'm not polluting communal air). This is self-serve.
There you have it. Your invitation to either grow up or stop fueling your tirade from the words on my blog.
Salama!
A. Maria Marcelin, Adult.
This grinds my gears.
ReplyDeleteSorry. You were probably excited that this comment was from the person that the letter was directed to. Unless that person is me. In which case, I'm not sure what to say. I only talk smack on you guys when I think it is absolutely necessary (which is often). Also, I'm also worried about your state of mind, because I am not actually in Africa (or am I) and you must be hallucinating.
Sorry for the above. I am attempting to get the juices flowing for a paper that I should have written by now.
Beautifully written. Bravo.
ReplyDelete