Wow.
The blog has been super busy the last few days. Thank you for all the views, guys. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside 
The more you know.
People on the internet throw the words “libel” and “slander” around quite a bit without seeming to have the slightest idea of what they really mean. And as a writer who’s done her fair share of PR bullshit, I’m going to try to empower you idiots so that the next time you make a legal threat, you at least are threatening to sue for the appropriate thing.
Libel is when you write something defamatory to someone’s character.
Slander is when you say something defamatory to someone’s character.
Key things you need to remember about those two statements: libel is spelled l-i-b-e-l, not l-a-b-e-l or l-i-a-b-l-e or any other variation you can think of. And slander is only when you say it aloud.
In order to be slanderous or libelous, it needs to be said in a public forum, meaning a newspaper article or in a commercial, not in a private e-mail. Remember, as Americans we are constitutionally guaranteed the right to say whatever we want about whoever we want. So private conversations are just that: private. Now, if you forward a defamatory e-mail to forty different people you are taking it out of the realms of what we could logically consider a conversation and into the public which is, in fact, libelous.
Just a note: If you call someone names, then threaten to sue them for libel in the next sentence, you are too ignorant to communicate at all and should probably consider life as a recluse instead.
Telling the difference between libel and slander or free speech is tricky. Rule of thumb: if what the person is saying is true, especially if you have admitted it is true, then legally it will probably not be viewed as libel or slander. [Of course, it could be construed as something else, like harassment, but again... we do have free speech, and not everyone is going to have good things to say about you 100% of the time.]
Let’s say that my boyfriend- because I know he’s a good sport and that he doesn’t read my blog to begin with- just told me that he’s a kleptomaniac. If I go to his mother to discuss this problem, can he call it slander? Of course not. He admitted he was a kleptomaniac, making it safe for me to assume that it is entirely true, and I’m within my rights of free speech.
Now let’s say that my boyfriend gets upset that I told his mother and wants to rally his own support, so he gets online and sends out a mass e-mail calling me fat, a liar, and saying that I have stolen from my little brother so have no right to call anyone else a thief. Can I call it libel? Absolutely. He sent an insulting and defamatory letter to the uninvolved public, and I never admitted to stealing from my brother.
But are either one of us going to sue or even threaten to sue the other? Hell no. We’re adults, for Christ’s sake!
This isn’t high school, this is real life. The wonderful thing about the internet, all of these blogs and social networking sites we have access to, is that we can exercise that lovely right to free speech… and yeah, that means that eventually someone is going to post something online that is going to hurt your feelings. If you don’t want to risk it, delete your e-mail account and find a new hobby. Something safe and kind and warm, like knitting or stamp collecting. Otherwise, if someone says something mean to you, suck it up. In the immortal words of Prince: act your age and not your shoe size.
It doesn’t matter who you are: NOT EVERYBODY LIKES YOU. And if you do something to exacerbate their dislike, then you need to accept the consequences of your actions, even if those consequences are that other people may eventually hear about what you have done.
Nothing stays in the dark forever, kiddies.
Valentine’s Day Article 2010
This is the last love-themed article I’m ever writing. It takes way too much out of me. Do you hear me, Dwayne?
My friend- we’ll call her Lorena- is getting married today, and I could not feel more disgusted.
Lorena and her soon-to-be-husband met on vacation in New York when they were still in high school, and have been hopelessly in love ever since. They are the perfect couple, and he’s the perfect catch: he’s intelligent, articulate, attractive, and he comes from a rich family. Absurdly rich. So rich that they do not, in fact, remember exactly where all the money came from; they simply accept the fact that they have it and continue on with their blessed lives. Three months ago he decided on a whim to squander just a corner of that family fortune to take her on a tour of Western Europe. [Europe, for Christ's sake. Who knew people really did that outside of the silver screen!]
Their romantic getaway ended with a positive pregnancy test, and that was when things began to get sticky. If there is one thing a eurotrash blueblood like Lorena’s sweetheart cannot tolerate, it’s responsibility. So he very literally packed his bag and booked a seat on the next flight to the opposite side of the continent, leaving her alone and almost too stunned to be heartbroken. Almost.
I tried to be the caring, sympathetic, loving friend that Lorena has unfailingly been towards me our entire lives, but the sadist in me was unsurprised and maybe even just a little pleased to see someone who once had everything brought crashing back to reality. She had never missed an opportunity to brag about her perfect relationship, and who could blame her? Her life since meeting him was so like a fairy tale that it was nearly unbearable to watch. But it seemed that it was midnight now and time for her to rejoin us back in the real world, where life, quite simply, sucks.
But not only did he come back within the week, he came back with a diamond! So just like that, Lorena was back in the clouds and planning her dream wedding.
Okay, maybe I was bitter. It’s the 21st century for Christ’s sake: men just do not whisk their girlfriends away to Europe for a month, and they certainly do not propose after knocking them up.
Getting pregnant outside of marriage means that you are fucked, not loved.
No one gets to live happily ever after anymore… No one except Lorena.
What had she done to deserve it? What made her so goddamn special?
I concluded that it surely was because she was one of those exotic looking tall, skinny, and leggy women you see in the glossy pages of magazines. I’m 5-foot-nothing and shaped like Betty Boop, unnaturally exaggerated to the point where every day you defy gravity just to stay right-side-up… which is fine if you are a cartoon character, I suppose, but on a human it just looks silly as hell.
That answer satisfied me for a little while- what woman doesn’t blame her appearance for at least some of her romantic issues?- but then I thought about it a bit more. Someone told me once that God doesn’t give you anything that you can’t handle. Lorena nearly went catatonic at the thought of being a single mother, of being alone at all. She isn’t strong enough to rely on herself because she has never had to before. So maybe Big Guns Upstairs was in a merciful mood that day when he saw her crying into her satin throw pillows and gave her a break.
I think that Lorena will be a great mother, now that she has the security of knowing that her new husband will be there to support her when she cannot support herself. As for the rest of us, we just have to keep holding our ground until someone up there notices that we need a break, too.
Webcomic done in paint for my broseph.
I just found out today that my brother, who’s vacationing in sunny warm beautiful Philippines while I’m here in cold lonely boring Colorado, was stung by a jellyfish. Below is my ghetto webcomic depicting how I think it happened. [Okay, so I don't know shit about graphic design but I do know Old Gregg.]
Huh…
Baby’s latest picture at about 11 weeks.
He’s actually a humanoid life form now! Not a shapeless little ball.
James and I were talking about the rape scene at the beginning of Ebony, and he asked me why Ebony, who at that point is still a completely heartless and merciless mofo, would put so much effort into saving her. Well, duh. He was there to get a virgin, and he wasn’t leaving without one. Pretty obvious, but once I said it out loud it kind of surprised me. I don’t think that I ever realized that was why he was doing it; I suppose I thought he was just doing it to gain her trust. But it ends up he was just the bigger, meaner predator scaring away the smaller one from his dinner.
So who’s the worse monster, really? Tay or Ebony?
Bit more of the sex scene from Ebony.
This is a little later in the chapter. It’s short and sweet, I like how it turned out. I didn’t plan on Keona getting so pissed off until tonight… She’s definitely feeling exactly how I’m feeling tonight, and so I suppose that she’s reacting the way that I wish I could react right now.
Keona grabbed the wine bottle, still half-full, and flung it against the wall opposite. The tears were coming fast now, unstoppable no matter how hard she tried to turn her sadness to anger; they mixed with the kohl eyeliner and burned her eyes like acid. Furiously, she tried to rub off the remainder of the black makeup with her shirt sleeve but only succeeded in smearing it further. She had looked more ridiculous earlier that night when trying to look beautiful for that thing that argued loudly now in the kitchen.
Had it really been her who had spent the afternoon dressing up for him? It seemed a lifetime ago that she and Parker had giggled over the beautiful stranger who had stumbled into their lives and promised to sweep Keona off of her feet. An urban fairy tale, and she was the princess getting ready for the big ball.
Just a silly, stupid girl playing dress up, she thought disdainfully as she knocked the lamp from the end table, sending it crashing to the floor where it broke into a hundred jagged porcelain fragments. She wanted everything in this place to be as broken as she was.
Parker sat in the pink damask armchair, watching coolly from the corner as her friend tore apart their hotel room as though it were a common occurrence. As though calm, collected Keona was always smashing mirrors with the heels of her hands like she did now.
“Honey, you’re bleeding,” she said finally.
Keona stopped and held her hands up in front of her face. Blood trickled quickly down her forearms. She looked around the room and saw Seina standing in the midst of all the chaos, her arms crossed over her chest and an expression of concern etched across her face. She came across the room and took Keona, still crying, into her arms and held her tightly.
“Are you ready to go, darling?” she asked. “Because I’m ready to take you.”
“He never really wanted me,” answered Keona, and her tone made it seem as though it were an explanation, an answer, for her inexcusable insanity. It was an expression of all the misery she felt, all of the regret.
She was giving voice to the realization that after tonight, she would never be the same. She would never forget Ebony.
Winter word jam session.
Alana is one of my favorite people to bounce ideas off of when I’ve got writers block. We talked a bit about why everyone seems to get the impression that Bastian is a necrophiliac. [He isn't, I assure you.] The thing I love about Bastian is he was a victim of horrible, unimaginable physical and sexual abuse his whole life, and now he constantly craves control. So we decided that somnophilia isn’t out of the question for him; I think that’s one fetish that is arguably more about control than even sadism. Then again, necrophilia is about control too, isn’t it? Anyway. Bottom line: Bastian likes his girls with a pulse.
Yeah, Layla does have a pulse. That was the next thing we talked about. I don’t think she’s by any means the walking dead. She’s a living being, completely human biologically, but she is immortal; it’s not that she isn’t physically capable of dying, it’s that Sarasvati won’t let her die.
Alana asked me why I think Bastian is going to be so easily persuaded by Shaun to turn dark side. I honestly don’t have an answer yet. I don’t think he’s a bad person… I think maybe he’s always envied Layla her immortality and finally starts to realize that he really is drinking himself to death, that he’s already done so much irreparable damage to his body, and sees this as an easy way out. He’s probably too naive to see the repercussions, like she was when she was human and made the same offer. I don’t know which god/dess is going to, you know, “sponsor” Bastian. I’m definitely not going to limit myself to Hindi gods and goddesses. I’ll pick someone good…
Oh no.
I’m stuck in bed rest for today and tomorrow, so I decided to put a little work into Ebony… Twenty minutes later, I’m one sentence further than I was when I began. It seems like I end up rewriting more than adding to this chapter. I already overshot the deadline by a month but things like this take time.
CNN confuses me.
Blame it on the pregnancy hormones, but I’ve recently read some things on CNN.com that confused and upset me.
Article One basically rambles on about why you shouldn’t move in with your romantic partner. Really? I moved in with my boyfriend when we’d been serious for all of a month, and things are amazing. I know I’m not the exception to the rule. We’ve had two real fights- both, mind you, right around the time I first conceived- and a handful of quickly resolved disagreements. Maybe we just put more effort into making it work than normal people do… but I think if you want to live with someone, the half-formed thoughts of some idiot man-child online shouldn’t influence it.
Article two consists of some dumb broad moaning about how hard her love life is because she’s tall. Really? Really? I’m five-foot-nothing. Do you have any idea how incredibly difficult it is to find an adult male even close to my height, let alone one who is even moderately attractive? It took me twenty years to find one. Stop bitching and buy a pair of flats, for Christ’s sake. The article reads more as, “Men don’t approach me because tall women are goddesses, blahblahfuckingblah” than anything even remotely interesting to read. It’s vanity, not dating advice.
I can sort of relate to article three. Dude has an American first name and a Spanish last name that no one can pronounce; I have a Spanish first name that no one can pronounce and an American last name. I work in a call center and answer the phones with my legal name, and people are always hearing it as “Fiona” or “Shawna” or some crazy shit. I learn to just go with it:
“Did you say Deon?”
“Yes, ma’am, how can I help?”
Another thing I like about Mr. Rudy Ruiz is he doesn’t look overtly Hispanic. As someone who’s pretty racially ambiguous myself, I dig that. Some people don’t realize that Latin blood comes in all different shades, so if you’re bit pale people tend to want to butcher your name into an Anglo-friendly form. Even my boyfriend- a Latino himself, god bless him- does it to me. You accept it. It’s part of the small assimilation that’s necessary when living in this country. There are aspects of your cultural that you give up, but there are also aspects that you refuse to ever let go of. Like, lisping on certain words and a fondness for green olives and garlic.
An old one, but one of my favorites.
This one hasn’t seen the light of day in a while. It’s an extremely short story I wrote years ago while on vacation in Asia. I went through this Elton John-esque phase where if I couldn’t finish something in ten minutes, I gave up on it completely; the results were concise, compact little tales that left room for expansion. I favored plot development over character development. Some turned out terrible, some- like this one- I remain rather fond of.
I would not be here if it wasn’t for him, I reminded myself as I stared across the dimly lit bar from my table to his. He sat with a cigarette in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other, pressing the palm of the hand holding the cigarette against his forehead and staring down at the table top. The picture of misery. I had never seen anything more beautiful. His dark curls- you could not tell in this lighting if they were black or brown, but I knew that they were black- fell over even darker eyes, not quite almond shaped but close enough that they looked exotic, making his skin look ghostly pale.
He came here night after night, alone. The first time I had seen him was the day my fiance of one and one half years left me. He walked in just as the bastard left the bar and when I saw him, I realized that I had never been in love. That is not to say that I loved him that very instant… but something in him screamed out to me, told my soul that I had never loved anyone else, had never been meant for anyone else. He could have walked into any other bar in the world that night, but he walked into this one.
I wonder, did he feel it too?
Every night after work, I came here. I ordered a Coke and I took a table against the wall, diagonal from the table he always chose, and watched him. The picture of beauty. A week later, my sister introduced us. We slept together. We have not said a word to eachother since.
I would not be here if it wasn’t for him, I reminded myself, wringing my hands and fighting that primal instinct we all have to fuck things up even worse than they already are. Surpressing to the urge to go to him, grab his shoulders and shake him, scream at him, “Don’t you know what you’ve done to me?”
I came here every night and I watched him, and he did not even know I was there. But he still pulled at my heart, pulled at every fiber of my being, as he sat in miserable beautiful silence across the smoky crowded bar by himself. Screaming at me. He had held me for a few hours and then he had let me go forever. He had dropped me and sent me spiraling downward.
And I fought the urge to scream back at him, fought that primal instinct, forced myself to sit on the bar stool with my hands intwined and pressed firmly into my lap. I could not trust my hands. I could not trust any part of me, not around him. Who knows what I might do?
He lowered his hand to take a drag off his cigarette, wrapping those perfect cupid bow lips around the filter, igniting the tip, and as he lowered he hand his raised his eyes and those shining black orbs met mine. My heart skipped a beat. He could have walked into any other bar in the world tonight, but he walked into this one, and he was staring straight at me now, tearing into my soul.
He looked away.
