Eight Lives Left

I keep remembering how he asked me to go with him when he had to have his old kitty Kit put to sleep. He cried in my arms afterwards and I rocked him. He asked me to hold his mother’s ashes for him when we all made the move to Colorado because I was going first and he knew I’d be very careful and respectful of the urn. He came to me for advice and I went to him for advice.

And then I called him on being hypocritical about something and he went nuts on me. He physically threatened me, tried to hurt me verbally with the most vicious things he could think of, and sent me taunting emails for years after we had stopped being friends. Some of you might remember that period because it was right around the time I started writing in a journal as well. So I know what he was capable of, but I also know he cried about his mom and his cat.

Well. Even my ex-husband cried after he’d killed my kitties. Maybe tears don’t mean much.

Oh yeah, baby.

I guess my intuition is still working just fine.

It’s all good. I’ll just take a deep breath and take a step to the right.

TIME WARP.

My phone number and address are listed in the phone book. If you know the body name then you can find us very easily on the Verizon Yellow Pages or just about any other equivalent site on the Internet. The fact that you have my name and address and phone number does not bother me because they happen to be public, meaning that they’re readily available for anyone with half a monkey brain.

So go ahead and post them. I am not threatened. I am not worried. I am not annoyed or upset or scared.

All that’s really been achieved by this latest installment of rampant wankertude is that I’m even more convinced that you’re a mental fucktard who needs some strong psychotropic drugs and a decent therapist. I could help you find a good psychiatrist and therapist, if you should ever decide to actually try to face up to your own issues instead of attacking people.

Your every effort to intimidate me is a source of amusement. The more you try to bully me, the more I see what a scared little boy you are.

That’s all I’m really going to say about it in this personal journal. Frankly I find writing about my trips to the Post Office more interesting than you. You’re good for some eye-rolley-he-did-what moments, but that’s about the extent of your attraction for me.

Please, go - get a life. You’re a professional, you’re educated, you must be reasonably ok looking - I don’t really see why you feel the need to hound Lea et al. Just say no to being weirdly obsessive.

I’ve removed the whois information from a few posts below, at the fucktard’s request, even though it is publicly available. Go to whois.sc and do a search on spottedlop.info - that’ll be him.

Ask Lea for the whole story if you want it. Suffice it to say he gives me the heebiejeebies.