I am Angrycommenter-bot. I am programmed to hijack Don't Shoot The Messenger and destroy it with a monotonous drone of half-truths.
Destroy Don't Shoot The Messenger.
(lasers)
Former child stars with blogging hobbies are no match for Angrycommenter-bot.
(lasers)
I did not like it when you erased your mouth in Photoshop.
(lasers)
You are too old to be blogging. You should find a reason to resurrect your career, like taking up meth or dancing with the stars.
(lasers)
Lecy: Not so fast, Angrycommenter-bot!
How did you get through my forcefield.
Lecy: With a little help from the Blogger Team. Thanks Blogger Team!
Now, what were you saying about me being a worthless piece of crap?
Destroy Don't Shoot The Messenger.
(lasers)
Ruin Lecy's day by insulting her blog.
(lasers)
Lecy: Angrycommenter-bot, why do you bother writing such negative comments on my blog? Why not just say "Mental Note: Next time don't click on Don't Shoot The Messenger?"
Your self-indulgence irritates me to the point of political action.
Lecy: Well I hope you're writing Dick Cheney, too.
I'm not.
(lasers)
Lecy: I understand the need to take political action--quit lasering me! But sometimes a blog is just a blog.
Freud. Does not compute. Error. Low disk space. Warning. This Angrycommenter-bot will self-destruct unless the batteries.........................................................................................................
Lecy: Whew. That was a close one, Socrates. Good thing I didn't have to press the Rapture button.
Socrates: Yes.
There are so many things going on. So many thoughts. So many people with so much to do. So much potential. And dissatisfaction. And happiness. And sadness. And trees. And leaves. And stuff. And pieces of trash. And places to go. And things to read. And to listen to. And to ignore. And to worry about. And to look forward to. And to learn.
In a cab today, exiting the Brooklyn Bridge, I saw a plump robin perched in a blooming tree.
You might be wondering, "Why the long break from blogging, Lecy?"
Well, I just got back from Cancun where I was going wild the past week with my friends Heather, Gretchen, Sarah, Candi and Shannequa.
After the pre-tanning sessions, mani-pedis, boot camp workouts, full body waxing and the Bebe bikini--my Dad's credit card was maxed out before I even hit the beach.
While all that preparation may seem extraneous, it was the only way this 31-year-old hag could pass among all the sweet young things.
I never imagined there would be so many hot college boys clad only in Abercrombe bermudas and hair gel.
Not to mention all the red-faced, white 40+-year-old pedophiles. And the VJs--all those hot VJs.
200 mai-tais mixed with date rape drugs later, it's a holy wonder my midriff stayed on at all.
Now, every time I listen to Sean Paul, attempt to glance at my new, lower back tribal tattoo or look back on the photos of all the teenage boys I deflowered, I'll remember 2006 as the best Spring Break ever.
So what I'm still burnt and hungover. I passed.
And you readers think I'm depressed and never have fun.
Okay. The dog ate my entries. Honest.
The zoo baboon
awakens to fruit
tossed by the uniformed,
scowls at onlookers
on the other side
of the glass.
Power, imprisoned,
resists and adapts
to canned Nature;
Instinct, thrown upon itself,
may roar at the sun
or scratch in boredom.
While hundreds snap photos,
bang and shout
at the glass--
is he ever truly seen
or is it a primate mirror
we take home with us?
