crybaby

When I was four, Jeremy Swift pulled my shorts down and stole my place in line for the water tap. I cried like a baby, which I was not.

When I was thirteen I was riding home from the school ditch day in the back of a truck with a few of my peers. I'm not sure whether someone had said something unusually cruel or whether the raging hormones of pubescence had gotten the better of me, but there I was, banging my head on the metal side of the box welded into place over the bed of the truck - Dong! Dong! Dong! Richard Smith, resident high school tough guy, told me to cut it out or he'd tear my arm off and beat me with it. I turtled and cried like a baby, which I was not.

When I was playing pick-up soccer one day on campus at University, I told a rugby player named Luke he should calm down since it was just a game. He called me a "fag". At long last, I didn't cry like a baby. I had finally learned that mom was right - that people usually said mean, unjustified things to other people because there was some sort of inner pain they didn't know how to deal with appropriately. Later, Luke sought me out at an art show to ask about a piece of mine and we had a good little chat.

So a few days ago when somebody responded to my journal entry about the suit with the comment, "You don't get it QUIT FUCKING COMPLAINING", I didn't break down. I'm still a sensitive guy so it still hurt, but the lingering effect was one of bewilderment. This is the third comment this person's left, and they've gotten progressively more poisonous.

What can I say, my angry pen pal? If you don't leave your email, I can't respond. If I can't respond, I feel like I've ignored an opportunity to set something right, which I hate.

You see, in sixth grade I was the new kid in an elementary school in Calgary, Alberta. I was short and shy and my nickname was "Morris" because I wore a "Morris the Cat" shirt the first day of school. Early in the year I got a hall pass to go to the bathroom and on the way back I saw a small girl who couldn't get her classroom door to open, though she was pushing with all her might. I could have helped her, but I just kept on walking. I have no idea why, but it's haunted me to this day.

When you wrote that email, you probably were "just joking". From my standpoint, though, that's all of you I know - anger. For all I can tell, you've got plans to fire-bomb my cat. While the cat is a pain sometimes, Anya would be crushed if you did so.

So why don't you just put down your sword and tell me what's really up?