The More You Ignore Me (3 page)

And thus a new, expanded universe!

The true commenter takes nothing at face value but remains intractably, joyously skeptical of any purported reality.

Of course, most commenters don't take advantage of this coveted position.

Most commenters simply parrot the writer's version of reality with hopes of some condescending pat on the head—sad!—but the form itself is revolutionary, for even in the seeming non sequitor spam comment soliciting consumers for penile enhancement, our conception of reality has been, yes, enhanced!

And so, in this spirit, on
Charlico.com
/blog, I saw suddenly how I would be able to enhance this wedding party's reality.

If allowed to reach its full potential, the blog and its commenters could be, I thought, yes, a harbinger of beautiful things to come, for I saw quite clearly that the wedding blog's comments
existed
for me, in order to facilitate my role within Charli's life.

The comments were a gift from the
gnosis
, delivered so I could have the opportunity to not only be of use to the young, but to cleanse my soul of clinging problems of the past.

Thus, with hopes high, still unaware of the pyramid's exact dimension or how exactly I would perform, once again, the role of point X, I began my initiative.

Happy?

Yes.

But even in those delirious hours, despite my happiness, I sensed a lurking evil.

Something was not quite right.

It was as if, hidden beneath the floorboards of our meticulously constructed yet still tenuous shelter, the carcass of some dead mammal sat decomposing in a riot of flies, maggots, and brainy juice, out of sight of casual onlookers, threatening to undermine with its rot whatever foundation might have been established above.

How could I tell something was wrong?

Easy.

After every true comment I made, a snide, mocking tone emerged from the false commenters in response, first from just one, then from another, and then commenter after commenter began chortling at my (correction:
our
) earnest striving toward a better tomorrow, as if I/we were a kind of amusing mascot rather than a sage.

Being a sensitive sort, as well as a seasoned hand at online discussion, I did not simply “let it go,” as I have often been advised to do.

Oh, yes, how many times have I been told to ignore my feelings, bottle them up, and simply skip on down the path to another web community.

I can even hear you now—“
Web
community? What about life away from the computer? A family? A garden? Go for a walk! Ride a bike! Get away from the screen!”

You can never know it, but how cruel such remarks are to me.

You see, I cannot.

There are reasons, even those besides the fact that when I do journey to different web communities I feel—no, I know!—that the impetuous twerp Chris Novtalis is on
Charlico.com
/blog working away to undo all of my efforts.

He's fanning the flames of rumor, innuendo, and, yes, a legal term is necessary: defamation.

He wouldn't have an online community—a reason to live?—if it weren't for me, but he goes on day after day taunting me.

He deploys the letters of my name in muddled anagrammical jibes at my character, he reworks my carefully wrought language in pathetic efforts to take credit for my ideas, and then, of course, he makes direct attacks on my good name and character.

Chris, this peasant of a man, telling his vast and undeserved audience that I am “psychotic” and “boring” and “not even a part of the wedding.”

Boring!

Is that a capital offense now?

God forbid I would bore such a fertile mind as that bloodsucker has!

Boring!

From such a racist, sexist, classist, ageist Neanderthal I suppose I should see that as a compliment!

But, alas, I cannot.

I see it for what it is: a base and degrading insult from an inferior.

Do you want to know what happens when I try to “move on,” as you suggest?

Do you?

Well, I'll tell you.

I get heart palpitations.

I get night sweats.

I'm sure I run a fever (though I haven't confirmed due to a childhood trauma involving thermometers).

A heavy, static-filled succubus sits on my neck, jams its arm down my throat, and stops up my breath until I force myself to go to the computer to see what vile filth is cascading down the corridors of the internet unchecked while I've been away.

And every time, I find that I am right! There it is! It is
ALWAYS
there—and worse than I imagined!

Hear me out: Like everyone else, I wake up each morning. A deceptively simple phrase, true, but what a gift! I am grateful!

This morning, for example, in the dank June air, consciousness broke over me like a pane of glass, and for a few minutes I felt free and clear of strife, anxiety, and horror.

I thought I might take in a film or eat a nice apple, work on a screen or teleplay. In short, live my life. But then, I remembered.

I thought of the putrid excrescence spewing out into the world as I was lying there, and so I lurched from my cot to my desk and I turned on the computer.

Horror! Filth!

I admit, because he is a crafty little devil, sometimes I think of the runty, Skittle-brained moderator and chuckle,
Oh, that's all he's got?

Sometimes I even leave the room, go buy my meager rations (as my submitted recipes indicate, I cook everything in my coffeemaker—instantly!—oatmeal, polenta, Tasty Bite Indian cuisine, rice; it's an ingenious system, if I may pay myself that compliment, and quite cost-effective considering my “condition”), but while I'm out a phrase or even the subtle implication of a phrase inevitably comes crashing back into my mind, where it festers and oozes until I'm back at my “desk,” blinded by fury.

I'm surprised I can even type. But type I must! And what does he want? Finally, what does this goon want?

Only the complete annihilation of my person, my history, and, I suppose, my ideas.

I believe he would kill me, given the chance, and so I am justified in my actions because it is a fight to the death. It is truly either him or me, and I am not one to back down!

Why does he hate me so?

Because I know that he has plans for the bride.

Shocking?

Yes.

Quite
.

But you should know that I don't level this accusation lightly or without merit. I know, because I did not let it go. No, I began to investigate further.

As many of you know, I soon pulled back the floorboard in question and uncovered the stinkmaker, the sock-puppet handler, the chortler, the fascist, the overweening point C of the love triangle:

Chris Novtalis!!!!

Assassin!

Yes, I was as shocked as anyone that it turned out to be the
BEST MAN
and
WEDDING BLOG MODERATOR
, who, I might as well make it plain again here, had (and has!) plans not only to degrade the
idea
of marriage, but to ravish the bride, Charli, and destroy her happiness with lusty violation
in flagrant delicto
!

Those who do not study history, etc.

I know at first you will doubtlessly find it at best
curious
that someone with coital plans for the bride would be such a vocal cheerleader for a marriage involving, primarily, his brother, but don't let the blinders society has saddled you with restrict your reason.

Remember the basics of geometry, my dears, for Chris surely does.

He wishes to assume the role of C, to shoot his line straight through Charli's B, obliterating Nico's A.

Squirp
is the horrendous noise I imagine this act making.

Squirp
.

Squirp
.

Squirp
.

Over and over again!

For you see, Chris does not wish to expand the triangle into a pyramid, but rather to reduce it to a fascist line.

Clearly, Chris wants this marriage to go forward simply so he can have dear Charli close at hand, as part of his “family,” and thus within his filthy reach in order to violate her repeatedly and at will behind the back of his sad, pathetic brother Nico (point A).

This would, of course, simply be hurtful toward Nico and destructive to Charli (i.e., none of my business), if it weren't symptomatic of the larger issues at play.

Proof?

My word is not good enough for you?

Well, I can't blame you, since most of you aren't aware of my record as online justice-seeker and truth-teller, so how about this, an e-mail I received from “Charli” soon after my campaign began. I present it here in toto:

Hello,

I don't know who you are, or why you write the terrible things that you do on our website, but I'm writing today to ask you to please stop.

Please do not comment anymore on our blog. It is hurtful and destructive. Please. Just stop.

You're a writer, a real one, and I respect your gifts. As you know, I'm a writer too, and so I know what it's like to be misunderstood.

I'm guessing from what you've written in the comments that you feel like you aren't in control of the narrative of your life. People—on our blog, and I'm sure elsewhere—accuse you of being a number of things you swear you are not. I believe you.

But I have to tell you: your writing only makes it worse.

This is hard to understand, I know, because it's clear that all you have ever done is write in an attempt to give shape to what you've called “the lurching chaos of our time.” You say you've begun to feel like “an emptied-out version of what you had hoped you'd be,” and I don't doubt it. But this is not the answer.

I'm sure you don't believe me when I say I understand, but maybe I can prove it to you.

Years ago Nico read hurtful things I had once written about him in my journal. I was trying to weigh the pros and cons of staying with him after a fight, and I wrote down thoughts I would never say aloud in an attempt to understand my own muddled thinking. Nico read these thoughts—never mind how—and our relationship nearly didn't recover. In fact, to this day I've felt only dread and paranoia when I've written anything down—even this e-mail—worried I'll somehow hurt him again without intending to.

To make matters worse, for some reason Nico showed his mother what I had written. This woman is soon to be my mother-in-law. When she finished reading she said, jokingly, to Nico: “I'm not sure I should've let you shack up with that bitch!”

You see, I was misunderstood. Just like you.

Or how about this:

A film studies student of mine who was upset about his grade put e-mails I wrote to him up on his blog—along with pictures of me taken from my friends' public Flickr accounts, some of them in my bathing suit. Other former students of mine, all male, wrote terrible, hurtful things about me in the comments, but what could I do? Write in and tell them to stop looking? Of course not. Sometimes, you have to just let it go.

I'm begging you, as a sympathetic friend, to please do just that. Whatever has caused you to latch on to us, please, just let it go. Please, please leave us alone.

Sincerely,

Charli

Well, dear readers, I must tell you this ruse nearly worked. I felt touched in my very soul by these hysterical words, ashamed that I had caused Charli to feel further misery when all I had wanted was to love her. So much strife! She sounded deranged!

Had I caused her so much trouble merely by
commenting
?

My god!

But then I thought, Isn't it
CONVENIENT
for her to have had so many similar experiences at her fingertips, ready to be deployed at just the right moment? Isn't the language employed to convey these feelings a bit
TOO
deranged and yet still precise? Isn't this e-mail a bit too, dare I say, mannered?

Yes, of course it was!

Because it wasn't Charli at all!

It was Chris
himself
who must have sent this epistle from Charli's account!!!!!

It was the only explanation, since I know she couldn't truly want me to stop enlightening her.

Nice try, scoundrel!

I copied the false letter in its entirety and posted it on the blog for the community to see, and just like clockwork I received the following note from Chris, the
Charlico.com
/blog “moderator,” whom I'm sure must have been appointed to his position on a day in which the bride was too overtaxed to see he is, in fact, retarded.

Now, don't take offense—I don't use the word “retarded” to put down the disabled but rather to illustrate in the most succinct way possible that this horrid cur is
malformed
, that something must have gone wrong very early, in the womb perhaps, or even in the very first coupling of
DNA
strands; a fateful deficiency of protein or glucose caused him to take on that slack-jawed look, that high slope of forehead, and that squeezed-melon of a skull.