The above = my dominant viewing spot for the past 4, 5 days. Another epic migraine. Except for the 6 hour lie on New Year’s
Eve, when I convinced myself I was well enough to go to a party, smile and fake it. I was, of course, wrong. I had the right
intentions, however–get some fresh air, seem some lovely faces, engage in conversation. Pain trumps intent though, and so I
left without really saying goodbye to people and woke up the next morning with the usual unexplainable ache in my noggin and
a healthy dose of guilt(for the lack of au revoir–that’s very unlike me). Anyway, I feel like I’m finally crawling out of it…
right in time to go back to work tomorrow. Time for another doctor, because this episode was just ridiculous.

So I started my new year by hiding how sick I felt from everyone around me. I’m over it. I haven’t been well enough to do
much over the past few days except think–think on the ground behind me a bit but mostly on what’s in front. I squared away
my first gig for ‘10, and I’m ready to do more. There’s a new class to show my dukes to, and a few projects that are already
stealing my heart. Learning to approach them with “I will” instead of “I want to.”

More after I obtain some rest and a day or two of painlessness.

Going back to where I came from in a few days. I prepare to go with a project in mind–I’ll steal a few moments alone here
and there to make use of the rental and drive around my old town. Documentation for research purposes is one way to say it. Feelings
range from place to place–affection for some and a throat-full of bile for others. The visual is just a map back to how things
felt, cul de sac pockets in the brain, the hard-to-reach curved corner of the hippocampus. Then I will print them out, clothesline them over the writing desk and get to work.

Ink idea is the works for Jessica, my exquisite first roommate. I feel compelled to do something for her, in thought of her.
Ever since I found out about her murder, I haven’t been quite thesame. I think about her often. I’ve been in touch with our other roommate,
as she found out about Jess just as recently.We’ve taken to trading our stories back and forth, reminding each other of things forgotten which is the most precious & strange
thing–for someone to tell you so clearly about something you never remembered. Then, there. It’s back as if never gone. There
connection is key for me in dealing with Jessica’s death. It’s also pretty brilliant to have an old friend give you a lengthy
run down on their life and what they’ve been through over the past 8 years. That is exactly what we did for one another–the
summations are asymmetric, as significance is weighed differently in retrospect. In a way, we are talking about another lifetime,
or multiple ones with clumsy progressions. Anyway, it’s been nice to talk with someone who was there. It’s kind of like saying
“this happened and we lived through it.”

More thoughts, always more thoughts, but sleep summons me. Work was long and busy, and my therapy session cracked the
head and heart open. And some things are best when they are stirred up then reabsorbed into the body.

Had another roller coaster dream last night. It happens every now and then, more often than I realize–a dream about
waiting in line, pointing out their curves and loops to others, getting in, and riding one, hanging on. Always hanging on,
warning my passenger as we ascend that I almost always fall out. I put both elbow bends up under the bar and push
against the pull, and that’s how I woke up this morning–arms in two L-shapes, fists clenched up, laughing. I woke up
in the middle of a drop and I was still laughing about it.

Officially, the semester is over. I had a stressful ending–the stomach flu found me on the very last day(Monday), when
both of my final projects were due. I spent the day puking and worrying about getting my work in on time. Everything
turned out okay and the sickness backed off by evening. The queasiness is sticking around but it’ll pass. br>

The migraines have been a bit better–I do believe this medication is working to a degree. I’m going to pick up some
magnesium supplements and riboflavin(Vitamin B2) as well–both appear to help with head pain. I’m working on an
apppointment with the headache clinic here at Pitt–neurologist, more tests, more trying things. I’m also applying for intermittent
FMLA to protect my job, since the migraines put me in a position to always be running out of sick time. FMLA will give me
the extra day or two per month just in case. It isn’t something I want to do, but my options aren’t exactly limitless.

Next week, I head to Ohio to spend the holiday with the family. I’m looking forward to the drive–I’ve been traveling so
little lately and I’m really getting antsy about it. Starting to daydream about exit ramps, road signs, beaches, bodies
of water. Part of me feels ridiculously bored with my routine, and a bit burned out by the semester. I have a lot of reading,
cleaning, writing, creating to catch up on. A lot of life to catch up on…that feels most appropriate to say.

Eating an apple a day, the green ones if I have the choice. I have to spin it around in my palm a couple times before diving
in. I gnaw my way to the carpels while considering the term “apple rootstock.” I quickly decide that I like it.

After I make it through another bad migraine, I tend to declare myself as being “back among the living,” as that is exactly
what it feels like. Weak like a newborn but thankful just to be sitting upright and out of that ridiculous limbo-like fog that
hovers between pain and relief, awake and asleep. Last night I thought about how little I make this pain thing a subject/source
of my writing–I do this barely, if at all, yet it’s the big blindspot in my existence that I carry around day in and day out. As
much as I do not want this to define me, it plays a big part in the kind of person I am, the one I’ve had to grow into being(a little
more cautious, observant, sober–somebody who no longer apologizes for having to leave the party early).

In terms of writing about it: avoidance on purpose? Hardly. Well, I take that back. Here, in the realm of “blogging,” yes–I
avoid it on purpose because(as I’ve expressed to a close friend), I feel like I talk about it too much already, and nobody wants
to hear it. The last thing I want is a “pity me, please” type of misunderstanding. Quite the contrary. When I talk about it,
I want those I know to perhaps understand it a little better. Also, I want someone to relate to this(certainly, most certainly,
I do). Chronic pain sucks in a very specific way–I think it changes how you greet the world and the world greets you. So,
again: why am I not writing about this?

Truth? I don’t know. I have no idea. Perhaps it is because I deal with it on the daily and the last thing I want to do is get
creative about the hardest thing I’ve ever had to (consistently) deal with. Which is the most absurd reasoning because
I do believe the best way I can cope with this currently is by getting creative. I also think that I see it as my weakness,
my downfall, and I struggle with exposing that to others. I guess it’s twofold. 1: Creatively, I tend not to think about it
because I deal with it so much already and 2: I’m a big scaredycat wimp. The best news is that I’m willing to change this,
that I want to change this–at the very least it will provide me with another way to cope, to survive.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I do not write about these days, mainly because my extracurricular writings have
squealed nearly to a halt. I write for class and that’s been my story for the past month or two. Sending work out for publication
consideration? Yes. Scribbling down new lines & such? Not really. I feel like the autumn involved a lot of internal things–
work and thoughts, maintenance and questions–I find it impossible to write in the thick of it.

I’m still feeling quite a bit disturbed by the news of Jessica’s murder, too. Thoughts of her make me crave writing again, and
writing for the right reason/the only reason: because it is what I do and what I love, and there is no need to question
it or feel isolated or abandoned by it. May it never leave. May I always think of those nights at the apartment with Jess,
when she listened to me read new poems, when she offered feedback and support and her own work in return. The
next book will be formed soon, and the next book will be for her.

Other odds & ends: I’m three months sober. If it’s gonna be a long haul I pregame with the french press and sip on shirley
temples at the bar. I spent my first Thanksgiving alone ever. Just me and the cat, which was strange. The air had that specific
stillness to it that happens on holidays because your mind thinks that stillness into existence–the air is air like any other
non-holiday but we turn it into something significant. I certainly did; sitting on my back porch in the chilly air, staring at the
busted up clouds above me. I had cold spaghetti and brussel sprouts that day, enjoyed the thickness of solitude and stayed
in my long johns until it was time to go to bed again. I go back to the doctor in just under two weeks, and begin seeing
another one soon. More waiting rooms on lunch breaks but that’s okay. The medication seems to be working, though there is always more work to be done.

I started writing a poem at work today. The poem started with a title: “Keats Vs. Beats,” which referred to that night in
the year 2000 when four of us sat in a kitchen and had a read-off between John Keats and the beats(Kerouac, Ginsberg,
etc). It was the night of my roommate Jessica’s birthday. Her friend(my professor) John stashed a bottle of vodka in the
freezer, complete with cat toy wound around the neck. Belinda(my other roommate) pulled out the polaroid camera
and we took pictures for her in matching gray sweaters and fake mustaches. Jess came home balancing two plastic
champagne glasses with a finger’s width of liquid in each. She carried them all the way home from the opera house.

As soon as I started the piece, I realized how much I missed Jess, and I thought about emailing her again, as the last one
did not warrant a response. I figured I would try google, assuming a facebook page would surface(as everyone seems
to prefer that method nowadays). Instead, I found out that Jessica was murdered in her home in New Orleans.

I lost my breath upon reading and realizing the news, and I have yet to regain it. Jess was my first roommate, my first
real roommate after moving out of my dad’s house. I was 18 and she was 23, and she praised, nurtured, and supported
my poetry and desire to be a writer. She majored in British Literature and Botany, and loved Virginia Woolf. I’m aware
of Woolf’s existence because of her. She insisted I read “Orlando,” reasoning I would adore it. And I did. We watched
the movie together and Jess absolutely hated it. “They took out the most beautiful parts!” She yelled. That was her
way of talking. Kind of yelling, kind of not. If she loved something in a book, she would read it to you and want you to
love it just as much. She would finish the passage with, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

When I think of Jess, I think of sitting in the living room with her, smoking cloves and listening to Janis Joplin or Billie
Holiday. If Jess really liked a song, then she couldn’t let it play all the way through to the end. She would constantly
restart them from the beginning. I would pick through my e.e. cummings text while Jess sat in her giant chair, poetry
on one knee and the dictionary on the other. Some days we would drink boxed wine on our roof–I remember a spring
day doing that after class, unwinding, our books open against the tilt of shingles. At one point, I worked a waitressing
job that I could barely stand–one night after my shift I sat in the parking lot in the car and cried my eyes out. I put
myself together enough to drive home, and once I was there I let it spill again. Jess invited me to get a glass a wine and
come up to her room. She let me vent for a while, and then she played T.S. Eliot reading “The Wasteland.” We
spent the rest of the night laughing and losing our minds over Eliot’s cadence(“Hurry up pleeeease it’s tiiiiime”).

One time she made my friend who talked too much be completely silent for a solid five minutes. The same day we drank
boxes of wine and reclined on the roof in the sun topless, playing silly pop culture games and quoting lines of poems. It
was a very young and romantic time for me, an important one. Jessica and I kept in touch over the years here and
there–she moved to Utah for beekeeping and then to the Everglades, and to New Orleans which she loved. She stayed
there after Katrina, made a home for herself.

I can’t believe she’s gone, and I can’t believe I didn’t know–that I went on living without knowing. Which might sound
funny to read, but it’s just so strange when something tragic happens to a person who left such an imprint on your growth.
In a way I’m surprised that time didn’t stop. I can’t wrap my head around it. I can still see her sitting there, naming all
the plants in the plant room, or giggling about our next door neighbor Jo who walked around barefoot too much and sang
loud and unashamed on her balcony. Or bringing home giant stalks of cat nip and dropping it in the middle of the kitchen
floor so her cats could go to town. I think of receiving her emails and updates and how much I loved to read them, or the
card she sent after Katrina hit, the one where she is standing on the end of a boat placed squarely on the highway median.
I think of the day she plopped the H.D. biography into my lap, half-shouting “I love it!” Burning Bali Hai in hand.

There’s so much I want to say but it’s all coming out disjointed, in clumps and rushes and stops and starts. That will have
to do for now. I can’t get past the disbelief. I’ll end this with a poem that Jessica sent me a couple years ago:

Concerto no. 5

Again turn the sun to the music of the moon and let the night chime
Gather the fruits, let them bound the seams and burst the sorrows
Incessant swirls of melody and memory, thoughts of strands of pearls, vibrating another
clime
Baluster sways, breathing the songs of life, “days of youth” it cries,
yet solemnly creeks, “tomorrows”

Once more the words become audible
“Wear it again, sing it again, taste it on my lips again, sweet Carmine”
Eyes and lips and sighs touched with a mistiness of age, molds the absolute, mirrors an
old accord
From time to time,
lovers resign

“Chime again!” I plead the memories from indolence
Sorrows gather like moths to the dim light in the eyes of mine
Time incessantly breaks, laps the mind, searching for a source of abstinence
“Carmine, once…”
but the words fell away, and trailed apart

Carmine, the sweet realness of that symphony is more than my memory can afford
Tomorrow’s baluster is steady and next to the nausea, numbness is fine
Accordion days and nights and these thoughts of mine
To that old song, I dance alone from time to time
I resign
–By: J.H.

Just a sliver to post here. I just started adjusting to a new medication, so I’m going to
concentrate on getting through that. Soon I will fill this space with more things to
say. More coming, I promise.

My lady Renee lays it down about the library. Go here to read.

Our libraries are in trouble, and I never thought I’d see the day. The library saved my life all throughout childhood–I could
go there and escape. I could check out books on my reading level instead of being force fed the prescribed books in class.
I could go there with my dad and my sister, as a family. I could look up anything I wanted, find resources for my book reports
and projects(what’s up, encyclopedia britannica). I could fantasize about owning my own fully stocked card catalogue. I could
walk through the back aisles and smell the age and time and life between the pages. When home life was too much, too
confusing, too chaotic–I had a safe place to go. That’s the short version. The library helped me survive. My heart breaks
to think that someday our libraries might be a thing of the
past, that my kids may never have that experience..

Go to the link, read Renee’s words. An exerpt:

The library is more important than you. The library is more important than its librarians. The library is more
important than the materials on its shelves, screens, and speakers. The library is more important than the buildings that
house those materials. The library is more important than its director. The library is more important than the newspaper, the
TV and radio stations, and all of their reporters. The library is more important than the mayor, city council, congresspersons,
the governor, and every candidate for those offices. The library is more important than the state budget and the rest
of its funding sources. The library is more important than Andrew Carnegie.

The library is more important, because its potential for change and growth extends beyond you, to your family, your
neighbors, and your community. The library is not just a symbol or a luxury. It is a cornerstone for an informed society to
build its future. Anyone can use the library’s resources to become the next librarian, director, mayor, reporter, congressperson,
governor, anything. The library is open to anyone to educate herself and her children without agenda or bias, to entertain
himself with the media of his choice, to find employment, to research and read and listen and write and watch.

In my cover letter to apply for this job, I wrote, “Libraries, as a free source of unrestricted public education, are a vital part
of our communities.” Now that I work here, I know that to be true. It says right above the door: Free to the People.
The library is not more important than the people. Who are the People? That’s you.

I need to discuss how the past few weeks have been for me, I know I do. In order to
process them in a more complete manner, I’m going to have to hammer it down into some
words. That’s my method of final comprehension–pushing the words, the sentences,
the thoughts out of my veins and out of the hands, onto a surface or into the air. The
time is coming to do that but not yet. I will touch upon it soon, as I hide nothing when I
say times have been difficult. Until I do some more living, breathing and quiet thinking on it,
that’s all I can say.

Onward.

Today marks fall break which means no class, which means my Monday class will be
tomorrow and oh dear I hope I remember to stick around the big tower and not go to Posvar.
I will probably have to write a reminder on my handback. One never gets too old for those kind
of post-its. I’m also pretty darn excited today because in about an hour I am meeting with
my advisor to discuss the academic future(as well as next semester which is quite technically,
I realize, part of that future). Advisor meetings are exciting to me because I get to check
and and make sure I’m doing things right, making progress on my goals. I like figuring out what
classes are available for next semester and daydreaming about them, feeding off the
possibilities. Sometimes the weeks get long and it’s nice to have a reminder like this. As
in hey, you’re working towards something, don’t forget that.

Another reason for this advisor meeting to mean a lot to moi: plain and simple, this semester
is changing me. I wasn’t prepared but I’m welcoming it. I think I’m taking the right classes
at the right time for myself–it’s much different this semester, taking more than one class
and being a semester in…I’m back into the swing of things, so to speak. For as much as I may
gripe from time to time about my squashed schedule, or how nowadays my Friday/Saturday
nights are dedicated to homework, the truth is I love it because I care about
my classes. I care about my input(as well as the output) and I care about the material
we are covering. It’s difficult at times, but what isn’t? I mean, what of any value is not challenging?

A friend of mine commended me on bravery–for going back to school so “late in the game,”
and initially I brushed aside her praise. That tends to be my reflex reaction with praise in general,
especially in regards to school. But you know what? She’s right. I’m pretty damn brave,
whether I want to admit it or not. It isn’t all pie and roses to return to the academic setting
after nine years out of it. Some people will downright snort at the idea of homework when
you’re nearly pushing 30. Some people think it’s all Rodney Dangerfield, that the
struggle isn’t worth it, that the time nor the sacrifices made are worth it.

And, frankly, some people are silly.

At the end of every class, I am thankful for my age and the time I gave myself outside of
the classroom. I’m still working on my undergrad, so the majority of my classmates are babies.
Young things. A decade under me. A decade! This is something that leaves me flabbergasted
at times(like the night where most of my classmates did not know about The Andy Griffith
Show, or the time the majority of them crowed, ” But we were ten years old during
September 11th–it’s hard to remember!”). Yes, there are times like that. However, running
alongside that is a wonderful yet strange sense of responsibility–I’m one of the oldest(though
usually THE oldest) in class, so in a way I represent the future. As in hey, I’m ten years
older than you but you know what–ten years older is pretty alright. Lookit me, not being
crochety. I also abstain from a lot of the “when I was your age” talk(and you’d be surprised
how often I am oh-so-very tempted to do so). I’m learning a brand new level of tolerance,
understanding, and respect. Thanks, school!

I met with my writing professor a couple weeks ago and left feeling pretty darn good
about my work in her class thus far. My poem was up for workshop last week and discussion
went much, much better than I anticipated. A few classmates responded with feedback
that made me blush(one even mentioned that some of my wordplay reminded him of
Dylan Thomas). My writing outside out of class feels quite stunted–I tend to ball up all my
energy and thought for assignments, which is fine but not completely necessary.
Sometimes I act as if the creative reservoir comes with a capacity limit. Old habits.
Anyway. Between this and my Women’s Studies class I am learning that I must
not, I cannot, forget my voice. And I must use it. So I continue to submit work to publishers,
and apply to a writing “contest” through school, and square away a gig for next month.
Still fighting to do what makes me happy. Still fighting to hold myself together so that I can rightly enjoy it.

More soon.

This morning I woke up and realized that today/tomorrow is my official 8 year anniversary.
Eight years of being in the city of Pittsburgh. This is, of course, an important milestone to
acknowledge, and I’ve been sitting at work today thinking about how I might talk about
it here, in the space I use to talk about things.

In thinking about this, I started thinking about the place that I left, and the people I knew
there. I started googling names of poets I used to see on a monthly basis–the hearts you
witness breaking, the ones who witness the demolition of your own. Eight years here means
eight years not there, and on some days it is still strange to me. Where does
that time go? What does that time mean?

I started googling old names and places and collectives we started and loved with our entire
selves for the short duration of their lives. I found old websites and words and faces, and
then I stumbled onto a source which lead me to a source which lead me to realize that Jack
Bowman passed away this summer. A little over a month ago, actually.

My eyes started to well up and I did not expect that. I didn’t really know Jack, though I
knew of him, and he was one of the first people I met when I started driving myself to
Dayton once a month to read my poetry. He wanted to take me under his wing but I felt
outof sorts about that–I was still pretty shy and only nineteen and he was much older. I
didn’t want to be under anyone’s wing, or part of anyone’s movement because I was trying to
make my own. We hung out a couple times in the poetic circles–I recall clearly the day he
signed my copy of Strike! in Barnes&Noble, with Randy sitting between us. Randy who
he knew from past embarassments and events–like the time he was kicked out during
a bookstore reading for using profanities too much; Jack had scrawled the word “SLUT” across
Randy’s forehead before he went up to read in a red, red lipstick. They told me the
story and laughed about it. I remember that day with a clarity that absolutely confounds me.

I didn’t really understand Jack’s work. Like I said, I was young. I think he was into shock,
attention, and thought. He had a hand in everything at once, guided other young poets to
the stage to shock as well. Some of it was startling or strange but seemingly part of something
meticulously planned. I’m not sure how to explain it. Jack seemed to always be thinking, inventing.

We were not close and so the tears upon realizing that he had died were kind of surprising.
At first. It didn’t take long for me to see the connection of my emotion to him: sometimes
an individual, sometimes someone that isn’t even a main character, can end up representing
so much to you. That man represented my entrance into a new world, into a new city and a new art. He represented the fever and insanity and sadness of my relationship with Randy. I think of Jack, I think of Dayton. I think of the pictures taken during the living room reading, walking to the yard with my shoes in my hand, Jack passing the wine. I think of the group of people I befriended, the bar and the microphone, the ends the ends the ends.

I consider briefly the question: if this person is a representation of so much to me, what happens to all of that “so much” when the representation passes away? Is that time simply something that started fading the moment I left it behind? When so much of it changes(as in all of it), and you keep it living in your memory…then a person from that time, that memory, passes…well, it seems to drop a rock through the middle of the picture. Perhaps this sounds confusing. Maybe we remember things in a certain way, as they were,and it is this against our current life–it is this against the changing. The reality. In life we go through so many of them.

Jack Bowman passed away on August 5th. As soon as I get caught up remembering all that he represents to me(that time in my life, that city, individuals), I realize that he also represents a human life. He dedicated himself to creation and expression–one of those people you expect to be around for a good long while if not forever. I won’t say much because there isn’t much I can say. The news of this pulled something out of me, something I need to think and write more about. Where else can this go? I hope you’re resting well with your ancestors, Jack. Here is a poem by Jack called “My Spring Shadow.”

My Spring Shadow

I sit on a park bench on my patio
The bright spring sun in my eyes
In front of me
On the patio floor I see a shadow
It is my shadow
Reflecting from the sun
A sun reflected off the patio doors
Glass doors behind me
Doors that kill birds
That try to fly into the sun
Our past is always reflected from behind us
Casting shadows before us.

I don’t really say much at all about what sites I visit, what blogs I follow, etc. It’s a wild
little mix. I’ve been following a few of them for months, maybe even weeks–some? For years.
Case in point: dooce.com.

I can’t remember how I stumbled upon Dooce initially, but at the time Heather(the author of
the site) was still living in L.A, was not yet married, and had no children. Now she’s married and lives in
Utah with her husband and two daughters–Leta and Marlo. So yeah, I’m a bit of a loyal reader.
Why? Because Heather is a great storyteller, and she is able to take her life and relay it to
others in an entertaining fashion. Because she struggles with depression and I can relate to that.
Because I admire her bravery and her humor. Her site? It’s a good time. Let’s just say I enjoy
it for many reasons. The source of my enjoyment isn’t really the point of this entry.

Heather has made a living from her website, which is phenomenal–a prime example of amazing
things you can do with the internet and the ability to communicate. Click here to read her story. Her readers
are all over the place, and large in number. So you can imagine the amount of feedback she must get–
feedback which includes what one could easily call “hate mail.”

Hate mail makes very little sense to me. I guess it means being so enraged with whatever is
making you mad that you just HAVE to tell the source. Personally, I think that somewhere in the far faaaar
recesses of the person’s mind, they know they have little ground to stand on in regards to their
anger. There are people with genuine complaints, but I’m talking about individuals that email you just
to say “you’re ugly” or “you are raising your kids completely wrong” or “you are stupid.”
And yes, people email Heather with this bullshit.

I want to be eloquent when explaining how that makes me feel, but sometimes feelings are best summed up with simplicity: it’s gross.

Heather, however, is awesome and decided to do something with her hate mail. Instead of just filing it
away, she’s putting it out there–on a page riddled with various ads so that the hate aimed
her way ends up making her some change. In her latest entry, she explains:

Anyway, while all this is going on people are sending me messages going, dude, do you see what is being said about you over here and over here? Oh, and right there in your comments section? And I’m all, no, but I can guess. Is it something about the way I look? My chin perhaps? The mole in the middle of my forehead? Is it about what I’m wearing, how unflattering it is? Or how I’m an awful mother? Or how I’m exploiting my children for money? Or how I love Marlo more than I love Leta? Or how my husband must be gay? Because it’s all been said. Every awful thing you can say about a human being, it’s been said about me and my family. Over and over again, like a broken record, and I guess with the intention that it will at some point hurt me so badly that I will throw my hands in the air and give up.

And I’m sitting there feeding Marlo, my abdomen wrapped in a bandage SO THAT I DON’T GIVE HER CHICKEN POX, and I’m reading an anonymous comment calling me an asshead, and suddenly I remember that conversation I had with Heather. And I’m like, you know what? I’m going to let that anonymous comment help pay for the therapy that Leta is so desperately going to need once she finds out what awful things I’ve said about her on my website.

Internet, let me introduce you to Monetizing The Hate.

Here I will be posting all the hate mail I get in my inbox and all the hateful anonymous and
not-so-anonymous comments left on this website. And let me tell you, it is a hoot!
And the money? OH THE MONEY! I am going to roll around naked in all that money!
Because that’s what assheads do!

Also, for your convenience, I’ve added a link to this project at the top of the page in the navigation bar, so you can stop by at any time and see the artful way that insecurity unfolds via the anonymity of the internet.

I read a few of the hate mail entries posted and really couldn’t believe it. Why do people talk to other people like this? Especially to people they do not know, have never met, and cannot physically see? What is it about the internet that brings out the bully in others? Is it the fact that someone is putting themselves out there and finding success from it? Are individuals that bothered by another person’s success and/or livelihood? Would these same people say those hurtful things in person? Do people feel their opinions are somehow validated when they are “out there” on the internet? I’m thoroughly confused. I’m also intrigued by how much attention someone will give something that makes them so angry. If you don’t like the site or the content or the person behind it(for whatever reason), then why not go to another site and never come back? That’s pretty simple, right?

So yeah. I made this entry to post the link to Heather’s Monetizing the Hate page. I think it’s a brilliant move on her part, plus I’m a longtime reader so why not share some love? Also, I think the things people say are pretty gross, underhanded, petty, and downright pathetic. I’m not advocating meanness, but I think it’s important for others to see just how absurd some people can be when it comes to the internet.

click here for Monetizing the Hate