Love letters.

When I was in high school, for about six months during my freshman year, a group of more-popular girls entertained themselves by slipping nasty notes into my locker every few weeks. Like a lot of the torture campaigns perpetrated by teenaged queen bees, the notes displayed an incredible range of creative unpleasantness – sometimes they were just one-word insults scrawled on scraps of paper, other times, detailed pen-and-ink cartoons that gleefully illustrated everything about me that was ugly, awkward, undesirable and wrong.

The experience of finding them, on the other hand, was always the same. I would open the door, I’d see the scrap of paper fluttering amiably atop my textbooks, and my stomach would tie itself into a tight, nauseous knot as I thought, dully, Oh.

That was a long time ago.

But the memory of it – and the accompanying dread, embarrassment, and punched-in-the-gut sensation – has been bouncing around inside my head since this weekend... when I got a comment from someone who compared my scattered thoughts on homesickness to “pictures taken by a 17 year-old who thinks she’s getting into photography” and accused me of “faking insight and emotional depth”.

Oh.

Let me be clear: I know that to write is to be criticized, and this is especially true here, where the anonymity and instant gratification of the web give everyone the chance to speak his mind uncensored. I also know that this is the risk that comes with having a well-trafficked blog, period. I left the door open, and although I’m still surprised that so many people have come in, I shouldn’t be shocked when some of you aren’t particularly friendly. I appreciate your feedback, and I read and consider all of it – not just when a post is funny or moving, but when I miss the mark with an argument, when I make a grammatical or factual error, when a story doesn't quite get there.

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t bring myself to appreciate a comment like this one – unhelpful, cutting, and left with no purpose except to hurt my feelings.

Which, make no mistake, it did. A lot. So congratulations, anonymous person: You have succeeded in making a complete stranger feel really, really bad.

Of course, the humor in this isn’t lost on me – that when I take a break from penis jokes and writing about my tits in favor of something less vulgar and more thoughtful, someone’s first reaction is that I must be faking it. As though it’s impossible that I could have a rich emotional, intellectual and artistic life, and still think that there are few things funnier than the word “weenis”. (Heh. Heh heh. HAHAHA.) But compared with the disturbance that comes from being unsolicitedly insulted, followed by the unsettling knowledge of what a very special kind of asshole this person must be… well, the humor pales.

I wasn’t going to write about this at all – because I don’t like admitting that something like this gets under my skin, because I don’t want to be seen as fishing for reassurance. Some people treat their blogs like diaries – a place to write about emotions and relationships and personal problems -- but this is not that kind of blog. I try to keep things entertaining here, which means that, by and large, I write about the fun stuff rather than my fears and insecurities and feeeeelings. Including the fact that I was hurt by something one of you said.

But, at the risk of stating the obvious: Just because I don’t write about my feelings doesn’t mean I don’t have any.

And so, readers, while I’m not asking you to be nice (we all know how I feel about that) please feel free, when commenting, to practice the exquisite art of Not Being An Asshole. This blog provides no income for me; it's here because I enjoy writing it, and if you’re a regular reader, I urge you to not ruin that enjoyment by being cutting and cruel just because you didn’t love one of my posts.

Thank you, and we now return to our scheduled programming.