This is why I treat you with
Condescension and amusement in
You infinitely stupid creature
I am complexities and galaxies
Universes thinly restrained
Destruction and your two-celled mind melting
If I so deigned
I’m the weakest and strongest person you’ll
You should fear me, revere me
And I know this
But you’d rather call me ‘baby’
And ask to see my tits
To The Writer Who Sexted Me
I’m not even angry, to be entirely honest. The entire situation was so funny in a cringey way. Having a personal idol crumble down in front of you eyes and proceed to bonk you on the head during his descent- yep. I’m sitting here with the most irrepressible bemused grin you can imagine.
The story here is that a writer whose work I’ve liked on multiple occasions, added me on Facebook. Given that we had about 35 writing friends in common already, and that I was a fan, I added him without thinking twice about it. I quickly skimmed down his ‘About’ page. I’d read most of his recent posts, oh look, he’s married and got a kid, how cute, new book in the works- and about five minutes later, when I’d gone back to work, a notification pops up.
Ohkay.. It’s not unusual for some people, especially the British lot, to start off with a ‘hallo, beautiful’ or such like. I could let that slide. I responded with a ‘Hello, thank you for inviting me to be friends. I look forward to reading more of your work.’ I don’t know if the scaly old maggot stopped to even blink at my reply. Next notification reads-
‘Do you have Skype?’
This was definitely odd. ‘No, I don’t use Skype.’ I wrote, a bit terse now. ‘What for?’
‘Oh, how sad‘ popped up. Then a few minutes of nothing, aaaaand-
‘So what are you wearing?’
I kid you not, I wasn’t even pissed. I decided to fuck with him a bit for being such a reptile right off the bat. ‘Excuse me?’
‘What are you wearing? You know.. clothes?
I didn’t reply to that. Then,
‘Do you speak English? Are you Greek?’
Do I speak English? This guy has commented on one of my poems. I gave him a polite enough greeting to start off with. I think it was established that I do speak English. About ten minutes later and-
‘We should get to know each other better. Do you have Messenger? Whatsapp?’
‘I think you’re a little confused about something. Good bye.’ I unfriended him the moment I sent the message, and that was that.
Apparently not. A few hours later, my phone pings.
‘Hello, gorgeous.’ So unfriending people doesn’t mean they can’t message you anymore. ‘Are you in bed, darling? What are you wearing?’ That did it. I was debating whether or not to tell him to check what his mother was wearing while she fucks his dog, when-
‘What colour is your bra?’
Seriously. I mean, what is wrong with guy. He’s no spring chicken. He’s no drunk guy ambling over and asking me if it hurt when I fell, as if that’s the most ingenious pick up line every crafted (And incidentally, it should be a bro-code commandment never to use that, it stopped being funny twenty years ago). This is a guy with his wife somewhere around him. I’m closer to his son’s age than his. It doesn’t matter if you’re short or fat or bald, or tall and handsome and intimidatingly pierced. Surely by now he must have figured out that there is nothing so deeply unattractive that poufing around like a randy dodo on steroids. Or the verbal equivalent.
He kept messaging while I blocked him. And then he followed me on Twitter. It’s sad and hilarious at the same time. You’d think someone who writes fairly engaging political essays could have learned social cues by now.
Or learned to do anything but that.
To the writer who messaged me. I’ll keep it short, for the sake of brevity. You’re an ass.