Fuck You

It’s been two days. So many great things have been said as we all deal with the pain, the horror, and the confusion. We want answers, and there are none. We want justice, and know we’ll have to wait. I’ve been struggling to write, sleep, and center myself on the compass of my soul.

And what I’ve come to is this.

Fuck you.

Boston is not a huge city. It’s actually tightly compacted into a wheel of insane cow paths (they actually started as Indian hunting trails, but yeah). It’s like a snowball full of rocks waiting for the right car window. It produces great writers, great sports (even when we’re losing), and great ironies. We’ll tell you to fuck off for driving the speed limit, but help a kid with a flat tire (after lecturing him/her). We have bar brawls and the Irish Mafia, but dozens of no-kill shelters. We elect a lot of Republicans for the local stuff but send mostly Democrats to Washington. We host a breakfast every Saint Patrick’s Day where both sides get together to insult one another and wouldn’t miss it for the world.

So fuck you.

We shrug off snow, hurricanes, N’oreasters, and beat the shit out the British with a tiny rebel army when they were the greatest military force in the world. Like your Liberty? You’re welcome. Fond of Freedom? Don’t mention it. Need us? We’re there, but try to stop screwing it up and call your mother.

And fuck you.

Because you have NO IDEA what a Pandora’s Box of FUCK YOU is coming your way.  We are capable of both, you see. We will give our blood to those you harmed, but never stop til we have yours. We will carry those with no legs—WERE YOU NOT PAYING ATTENTION TO OUR PEOPLE RUNNING 26.2 MILES WHILE PUSHING WHEELCHAIRS? We will take yours out from under you. We will send our best to NY after the attacks of 9/11 and embrace the returned favor with the open arms of true brothers who may slug it out on the field, but know where the game ends and humanity begins. There is a reason we are a hub of knowledge. People here are smart. We can love the children you maimed and killed with the tenderness of a mother and still stoke the fires of rage to direct at YOU. Not one another. YOU.

Fuck you.

The beautiful words, the amazing heroism, the powerful stories of men like my Ahmed, John Flanagan, Aemon Kelly, and hundreds of others who immediately GOT UP OFF THE DIRT to swing back are who we are, not your cowardice. In the shocked silence of the aftermath we needed those stories.
Now we’re just focusing on FUCK YOU. That feeling between your shoulders? That funny little seeping tingle? That chill, like the one you get in an empty parking garage at 4 am when you hear footsteps and realize there is no security? That rush of blood heading out of your head that leaves you dizzy and makes your ears roar when you wake up, after a night-terror, and don’t know where the crippling fear came from?

That’s us. We’re coming. Fuck you.

You Want A Piece of Me?

I'm not that easy to scare. Really. So if you, reader, are the twerp who has been calling my parents' phone number, and calling the local Starbucks, trying to be cute... well, you aren't. Nor are you terribly bright. For serious. You have GOT to be about as stupid as they come.

Because I have lived in the same small town all my life, with brief educational excursions. I have the same friends. I have the same lifestyle, pretty much. I'm with the same guy I will be with for the rest of my life. I'm a creature of habit. Nobody who knows me, nobody who wants to get in touch with me, would ever have trouble finding me. Seriously, it's kindergarten simple.

And finding me via the internet is pretty simple. I mean, if you can't spell you can always cut and paste.

So the question of the week is this: how sad, pathetic, and busted-rock DUMB do you have to be to be unable to find a fat chick with a neurotic pug in the EXACT SAME PLACE she has been for 43 years? Nobody who has any business contacting me has any trouble finding me.

So who are you and what hit you in the head? Or were you the kid with the runny nose in the special room at the end of the hall? Or did you flunk out of the local junior college, only to find that this life was the best you could do? Inquiring minds want to know, doncha know.