One of you lovely readerfriends of mine made a specific request for a post. I am going to say two very important things right now, and even though only one of you made the request, you all need to listen up:
- I do not take requests;
- NO ONE TELLS ME WHAT TO DO.
Write it on a post-it note and put it next to your alarm clock or vibrator or Early Morning Frosted Flakes Enema or whatever is the first thing you see every morning, because I don’t want it to happen ever again. My creativity is very fickle. So fickle, in fact, I am actually pretty sure I have not written in however long it has been BECAUSE of this request.
So if you have missed me and my posts, and you’d like to complain, write me at stuffonlyilike [at] gmail.com, and I will tell you the name of the person who took me away from you.
Then I will demand you send me candy from a foreign country.
I mean… my creativity will. She is fickle. Like I said.
There was a joke in there. Did you catch it? It was about sending me an email. Why is that a joke? Because this Stuff is going to be about never answering emails. But it’s one of those jokes that is not funny because it is true, but because it is NOT true. A few of you have written me emails, and I have responded. So don’t go thinking I’d shun any of you, my adorable little drunken babes, my precious friends & fans, my siblings by another mother who we all know by the name of ‘Mama Internet’.
Because I am- as all of you are- very, very afraid my bosses will discover this blog and then call me in for a very emotionally painful and surreal meeting, I will say this first and foremost: Yes, the answering of the emails issue is very specifically mostly work-related, but NO, it is not intentional.
How long have you been on the internet? 10 years? 1998-ish? 1997? Were you one of those weirdos on BBSes? Prodigy.net?
I have been on the internet for a very, very long time. I started being very proper, then I abbr.’d evrything, then I went back to as proper as I could be, time permitting.
THAT’S how long I’ve been on the internet.
Because, you know, when you get an email from cuddlydaddybear897005 or handsomedan6722350918462 via the almost embarrassing amount of dating sites you are a member of, you always know how long that person has been on the internet by the way he types. If the email is ‘hey u, u r a superr qt. meet 4 drnks on the LES?’, he has been using the internet for at least 5 years. If the email is ‘hey hot stuf, u r vry hot, want 3 cyber?’, he is probably going to rape you with shards of glass from his coffee table, after he pushes you into it and snaps your neck. If the email is, ‘hii do u liek funk music? i do. want 2 chat? >:)~’, he is retarded, aka- your best bet.
Maybe we don’t all out-and-out know these things, but we feel them. Almost always, we just go, this guy’s a loser, and we don’t respond, or we respond, and then talk about him and how stupid he is to all our friends while we do. But it’s really directly proportional to how much internet you’ve had in your daily.
Again, I’ve had a lot. So much, in fact, that I don’t remotely use the internet the way 90% of you do. It’s a very personal space for me, a play space, a social space. Emails aren’t real communication; I had several horrible dates that proved that point to be true. Emails are notes. Like when someone writes, ‘For next time- please do not rub your balls on my lunch’ and leaves it on your keyboard. It would never, ever occur to me to write back, ‘Sorry I did that, Linda, but basil chicken salad feels so good on my nads, I really couldn’t help it. Will do for next time, though!’. I mean… that’s silly. Not because I used the balls-to-sandwich analogy, but because it was a very small note. It doesn’t deserve a return note. I mean, does anyone really want to know how good chicken salad feels on my balls? No. No, they do not. And, frankly, that’s my business, and I don’t WANT them to know.
There’s something else, though, something that I thought for a very long time was generational, but I am now not so sure. Face-to-face makes sense to me. I have something to say, I say it. To your face. Is an email necessary? I mean, if I wanted to work with people who ignore me, I’d just work for my parents and be done with it.
Sorry, sorry… if Mummy Stuff ever reads this, she will be mad, so I need to correct this- my parents have never, nor will they ever, ignore me. I mean, I am just under 200 lbs and stunningly, blindingly gorgeous, how could they? Also, my voice is the exact pitch and volume of a cop car when it breaks up a bunch of gay men in an popular anon sex area of a state park.
Back to the Stuff at hand- I had this conversation with a friend of mine, who recalls her 40-something boss at a publishing company always- always- sending her emails instead of just talking to her. I had several 30-something bosses who never, ever did ANYTHING this way. So, generational, right? I would think so, but there were plenty of OTHER 30-something bosses who did the email-while-you’re-right-there thing.
The difference? My bosses were creative, open-minded people. Peace Corps, queer rec center, babies-with-conservatively-adorable-names people. It’s just a different kind of brain. There’s no good or bad in it; it’s just different.
And I was blessed with that kind of brain.
And cursed (in a way- not a good way or a bad way- just a way!) to work sometimes with people who have, what I call, ‘a business brain’.
Because of this, my not answering emails is in no way intentional, and I never, ever get any of the much-needed personal contact I so crave. Instead, I get little emails I am never sure are as harsh or demeaning as I read them. Also, I get emails about how emails I have responded to have already been resolved, and I should just STFU.
And then sometimes, I get emails about Viagra. I hear it will make the ladies crazy. Is this true?
Anyway, the reason I love never answering emails ever is because, in the end, I get a lot more work done, and it makes me feel far, FAR more important than I am.
It also makes me look like an adorable scatterbrained artist who has too many genius ideas on her mind to be able to respond to you in a timely or remotely relevant manner!
Gosh, I’m so kooky!
Every time: e-mails.
You should have that as EVERY (time:) title.
Oh fuck – I didn’t want a fucking smiley face! Fuck you, computer!
My sister always asks if she’s going to make the blog. It annoys the SHIT out of me.