Flame — HabitableZone

Flame » in reply to Poor Art!

For you, I count to 100.

I was going to title this post "'Why Won't You Be My Friend? ;)'"

Poor you! You have no clue.

With your photographic memory, I'm surprised you don't remember a conversation I had with FrankC a while ago -- a long while ago -- about how I could feel myself being radicalized by all the unpleasant and extreme rhetoric from the Right. I said that if I get pushed hard enough in one direction, I push back. It wasn't much of a prophecy, because it doesn't take much of a prophet to see something like that coming, but lo! it has come to pass.

I make this prophecy, in the same class as that one: Once the storm surge of sewage abates, I will dismantle the breakfronts and untape the windows, but I will never forget my life with the wave. I will go back to my normal life, but I'll never watch the weather reports with the same casualness ever again. Such is the effect of savagery in civic life.

If I sound like steel wool and glass to you, it's because I no longer treat you as a harmless but well-meaning eccentric, but as an annoying know-nothing know-it-all. I can put up with, or fight with (as my mood directs), mean spirits, weird spins and ignorant assertions, but I have no interest in your head-patting. You're just mad that I'm no longer

very sweet in that polite librarian manner with polite little posts.

How very patronizing, sez the librarian (who knows from patrons).

When I began the process of handing you your head, you began to imply that I was emotionally depraved or mentally unhinged. (Hint: Leave the whisper campaigns to your heroes among the Big Boys, who know how to do them without leaving fingerprints.)

You have trod that path one time too many, Doctor. If I want to be analyzed badly by an amateur who uses pop psychology to define my character, I'll subscribe to Redbook where at least I can pick up some interesting fashion tips, and not have to put up with your insufferable ego.

Friends are where you find them, and friendships are what you make of them.

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