I, Anonymous Blog

The views expressed in these submissions are from anonymous, unverified sources and do not necessarily represent those of the Portland Mercury.

Having Kids Is Not An Achievement

Quit acting like you did something amazing by plunking out a litter of little shitbag clones. You’re not going to like this, but having kids is not an achievement, it’s a biological function. Fucking and then having a child is no more of an achievement than eating a bowl of chili and ripping a gnarly fart later. Shame on you for bringing more people into this already over-populated world and thus burning up more natural resources at an even faster rate, you irresponsible, self-centered, egotistical waterhead. I realize that when your kids do something truly disgusting and embarrassing, you have to tell yourself that “the rewards outweigh the cost,” but we both know that’s a load of shit that you tell yourself to stave off the thoughts of how your life is no longer yours, and how you have no more identity beyond that of "parent." By your account, all childless adults are wasting our lives by seeing this world, spending our time in dive bars while drinking away our sorrows. I doubt that is the case for most of us. Little kids are generally pieces of shit until they are taught and conditioned to be good people. Also, there are already 5-6 billion more people on this planet than should be, so thanks for adding to that. Those “deep belly laughs” are all you have, because you obviously lack the imagination and cognitive reasoning necessary to experience the world in more interesting, and satisfying context. So by all means, please continue to churn out more meat for the armies of the world, and more bodies to drain our already dwindling resources while making gross generalizations about shit you couldn’t possibly comprehend.


Farewell to Pseudofornia...

Fuck the ruin you've made of my hometown. You can have the dumpster fire you've started. I only hope that the sprawling homeless / methfreak / scum barge you all are captaining runs aground hard a few miles short of the outskirts I'm fleeing to. Fuck your bike lanes that cater to the six percent of the city's self-righteous asshole population, fuck your goddamned wine shops, eleven dollar "artisan" burgers, and your DIY "art" galleries which apparently exist only to furnish a platform to the untalented. Fuck your imported pretense, displacement of the populace, and faux radicalism.

In short, Fuck YOU, Pseudofornia.

RIP Portland. - It was fun while it lasted and it was an interesting place to grow up. I am saddened at your demise.


Dear Free Box Scrounger

You can't see me, but I am peeking through the second story window, watching you rummage through the free box I put on the curb last night. You are kneeling on the sidewalk, your dog's leash in one hand as you sift so tenderly through the box. You pick up a fancy art book I "borrowed" from work, turn it over, flip through it with one hand, and set it aside. You lift a pack of incense, given to me by an ex-boyfriend but with a potent perfume-y aroma he should have known better than to buy for me. You sniff the box gingerly and set it aside. You lift your head, glance around you from your low perch, wondering if anyone is watching you. There is a bag of art supplies, some paints and brushes that I bought to motivate myself to paint, but never used. With your dog-leash hand, you hold onto a tube and unscrew the lid, checking for dried paint. I know you will find no dried paint on those unused tubes. You put it back in the bag. You squirm a bit in your crouch, your legs must be getting tired. A sweater, which belonged to my mother, the shade of split-pea soup with a turtle neck collar. You thumb gently over fabric, deliberating whether this garment is hideous or trendy. You place the book and incense in the bag of art supplies. You lift the bag, and set it back down. You touch the sweater again, petting the sleeve. You stand up, glancing around you as you pick up the bag and the sweater, fumbling your dog leash. You hold the sweater. You drop the sweater back in the box. Enjoy the art supplies.


Sick burn ward

Can't get through on the health care application. Keep losing connection and having to start over. Hope I find out that my computer has more viruses than I do, cause so far neither of us are covered.


Mac and cheese

She's says she's scared I'm going to leave. She thinks I've hidden her from all the important people in my life.
I'm definitely more important to her than any of them.
I think some of them resent me leaving. Some of them were glad that I did. Others decided later it was for the best. Maybe they've adjusted. Maybe there was never any real connection with any of them. All of them with oversimplified answers.
"Why do you just —.... ?"
"You should just —..."
"All you need to do -..."
"You're so stupid. Just do what everyone else does.
I don't have time for this. Not my problem"
In the end, they'll see a resilient worker. A helping hand more than happy to stay in the background. A small but valuable resource. A mostly invisible person.
Hope I don't have to die or sustain major injuries first. Open enrollment. Health care b essential


The Death of Comedy

The political correctness in this country has caused the death of comedy. This country has lost its sense of humor exactly when it needs it most. Is there a published list of words and phrases we can't say so that we don't, in the remotest possible way, offend someone? Is there a Society for People Who Have Slipped on a Banana (SFPWHSB) who publicly shame comedians that portray a man slipping on a banana? There is a distinct right-wing fascist feel to these people (though they claim to be on the Left) who insist you can't make fun of something, that there are words and phrases that can't, in any circumstances, be used. Well how are people supposed to deal with the crap in life? You deal with the crap in life by making fun of it, making light of it. And by doing that, you own it.


The Making of Murderer

You startled me as I came out of the dumpster. Taking out bags of garbage really gets my adrenaline flowing so there's that. Also, I'm an emotional person, so there's that. I went back into my enclosure to get back into my building, after I locked the gate, and there you were, to my surprise. I simply asked, "who are you, how did you get in here?" Not thinking at that moment you got in when I had the gate open from taking out the dump. You responded loudly and aggressively with, "what it's to you, what business of it is yours." I said I work here and normally the gates are locked. You went on, "I don't know you, you didn't identify yourself." Now this is becoming a game. Provoked by garbage. "I asked you a simple question." You said, "you didn't answer my question." I'm thinking, WTF. I shouted other things but walked to check the other gate, knowing I had locked the one you came in from. Somehow, you yanked the thing open. To this moment, I don't know how you did that because it's a gate with a bolt. I followed you, called Clean And Safe, but now you're calm. I called you a dick. You have now done property damage. You went into your apt building. I followed still on with Security, but now the people at your front desk were there to talk to. I was still riled up and told the story. You in the most relaxed manner, said, "this guys is being aggressive." I laughed and said, that's not who you were out there. They later confirmed you have issues so they know about you. Later, I thought, how did this guy go from antagonist prick to really calm? Sociopath.


The BroHood

6 bros were walking on West Burnside. A beautiful, late, Sat, fall afternoon. I could tell there was a buzz and energy on the streets. You just know these things. I don't know why, but the crowd was out. Whatever.
I was waiting by the bus stop, for the bus, on my phone. Fuck me, if my arm was sticking out, the way it does when one talks on the phone. Fuck me that I didn't further get out of the way of the 6 bros, while I was already on the side of the sidewalk, and they were hogging it all up.
One bro bumped my arm. I turned to look back mostly instinctively. Last bro said, "Don't worry bro, he didn't mean to do it on purpose." I don't think he said bro, but they are bros, so... So I snapped back, "what?" As they kept walking, another bro said, "just stay on your phone bro." I kept looking at them.
Man. I hate these guys. I hate these guy guys. Frat boys. Straight Type A males with egos, and bigger egos when they're in their backslapping groups. Bullies. As if it's so hard to say sorry! No accountability as usual. The type to call someone a faggot then say they care for LGBT rights. The type to go girl hunting and want to "hit that," but don't call it what it is, rape.
Yeah, maybe next time, they'll be in a bar when a gun nut enters, then I wonder if they'll still be so bro-ish?


Nope

A decade and a half has passed, and we’ve both moved on. I’ve lost most of my hair and you’ve gained a bunch of weight. You remarried and I stayed married.
It was mistake from the get-go: Me a married man with four little kids, you a coworker and ending a busted relationship.
All the elements of a gigantic mistake yet we let it fester.
I told you I loved you, and I guess I did. You said the same, and I guess you did. We pretended we had some kind of future, with hand holding and secret lunches.
But I wasn’t willing to upend my life, and you weren’t willing to wait.
For sure you did some damage to me. My marriage suffered and so did my professional career, but not so much I haven’t recovered. I had it coming and have paid a price, but that punishment is over with. It never occurred to me that maybe I did some damage to you also.
One thing you said still lingers, 15 years later.
During the last battle, during the last ugly fight, you asked me “Did you ever think about my feelings?”
When I was unbuttoning your shirt and kissing your neck and calling you every night. When I spoke of getaways or birthdays or special events or how much I missed you. I enjoyed all that, and thought you did too.
But-“’Did you ever think about my feelings?’”
The answer is, no, I didn’t. And I still don’t.


Can we stop making every food Portland-y?

One of my absolute favorite thing about the food scene in Portland is our willingness to try new things. Whenever we hear about something good, we start finding it in restaurants and that's great. But, can we please stop trying to make every dish more Portland-y. We overdo it and betray the original purpose of the meal. I can easily buy a fourteen dollar po'boy in Portland. A fourteen dollar tab for a sandwich that was originally designed to feed striking streetcar workers. The bread might be really good in Portland, and the ingredients are also great, but can we stop pretending it's still a po'boy at his point. The target demographic for that sandwich should be obvious since it's built right in the name. What poor boy spends fourteen bucks on a sandwich? Nashville hot chicken is another hard find. We don't like food as spicy as they do in the south so, when you order hot chicken in Portland, you'll find something pretty tame. Is it really still hot chicken when I can eat spicier apples? Again, it's great that we're willing to try new things but if you insist on dressing the dish up for a Northwest palate, and you move so far away from the original intent of the dish, just come up with a new name for it. Stop riding the coattails of somebody else's reputation. Or how about just serving the dish the way it was intended? Hot chicken didn't become famous in Nashville for it's mildness.


Food service

If you don't tip food service people, you are just a shitty person. Just go make your own food.


Treachery at the Coffee Pot!!!

I took the gigantic bite out of each doughnut which our main industrial supplies vendor left you, then I re-boxed them neatly and left them next to the coffee pot for you to discover.
I spit the un-chewd bites into the trash next to the coffee pot, I'm glad you actually saw them!
You had an OCD fueled, managerial meltdown, the likes of which I've never seen! After days wasted on your maintenance staff inquisition, it’s a pitty your lengthy investigation process was so completely fruitless!
In the 10 months that have passed since this happened, you have not passed up an opportunity to express your rage about this, even when the opportunity had to be manufactured.
Your tales of treachery at the coffee pot sound like bitter tears of defeat to me, and they taste so sweet, even after 10 months!


We’re here!

Before you swing that door open on a busy narrow street, may I suggest looking in your mirror to see if that’s a good idea? That way, folks like me won’t have to swerve, honk, and call you a “goddamn asshole” before you take your family out to dinner.


To the Christian, Funk Bass Player

To the Christian, funk bass player that I fell for on Bumble. Next time, make sure you out yourself earlier than 3 months in. I should have known when on date 5 we made out for an hour at a lounge. It was obvious that when I asked you to come back to my place that I wanted to continue and have sex. Yes, I said it "sex." Yet, your inner turmoil got the best of you when I started unbuttoning your shirt and you called for an uber. It didn’t matter. I fell hard. You opened doors, had a Texas accent, and wore boots, and called me. The only person I know that loves Kendrick Lamar as much as I do. But, you landed a bomb. You were playing funk bass at this church. Then the light in the tunnel. You asked me over to binge watch “Insecure” the show, which I introduced you to, and I could crash there. How dare you get my hopes up and then tell me you are celibate after I straddled you. You have been going to church. WTF. Next time do us both a favor and write Christian, Funk Bass Player on your profile. I already bought you a Christmas Gift and planned our lives together. I have taught Middle School students, how much closer to Jesus can you get?


Blessings of Life

I recently saw an inspiring former President's daughter's lecture. Didn't matter what side her Dad was on, it mattered who she was and what she said. Her book would probably change views of the uniformed person who thinks here-say opinions are right over the diaries of actuality. She's a teacher in poor cities and lived in countries of simplicity and poverty. She's inspired so many she's taught. She's met so many hard working people. In her circles, I believe her. She left with a poem, "Tell me, what is it you plan to do, with your one wild and precious life?"
It resonated. I struggle financially, but work harder than most who don't have financial cares at all. In my circles downtown streets, and commutes, who works hard? I don't see it, or should say, I see a little. I certainly don't see anything inspiring on a daily basis. I see everyone just getting by, of the working class. Just do as little as possible to not get fired, but still enough to get a paycheck. Is that hard work? Something takes someone an hour to do takes another person the whole day, or to sit at a desk on the computer on Facebook, is that hard work? Don't get me started on the rest of life I see. These "living dead." "With your one wild and precious life?" There's a downtown homeless man, notorious with a blanket. Is that what his life has come to? How can I change what I see, when this is all I ever seem to see? Life is short so make the most of it when all I see is settling for a facile existence versus a grand one, then waiting around to die.


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