No less than three people have emailed me the story about John Cusack’s stalker this morning.

I’m starting to get the idea that my dear friends think there is some sort of correlation between me and this psycho stalker lady. Let’s just get this out there: I have neither the time nor energy to stalk Mr. Cusack.

You know, aside from all the other reasons I wouldn’t do that. Yeah.

If you’re just joining our broadcast, you’ll want to read the previous post and its comments before slagging through this long winded response.

So, let me begin by saying two things:

1. I’m writing my response to you as a post, mainly because it is easier to read large blocks of text in this space rather than in the comment area, and I do this in the hopes that this time you might actually take the time to read AND comprehend. (Well that, and this is MY site, so I can do what I want.)

2. This will be the last thing I have to say to you. You will never see my point of view - this is quite clear as you don’t even know what the point is - and since you apparently have no sense of humor, most of my comedic gems are wasted on you completely. I don’t feel the need to defend myself against your attempts at insults - it’s so painfully clear from your choice of attacks that you know NOTHING about me, there’s really no point. It’s also pretty apparent that you are the type of person who simply must have the last word on something, so I’ll let you. Feel free to comment here as many times as you feel necessary; I’ve got lots of bandwidth to spare. (And anyone else who feels like expending the energy to reply may feel free to do so. So far I’ve been amused with my friends’ grasp of wit.) I did not use your comment as a “springboard to start this discussion” - you misread (something you’re really good at). I used your comment as a spring board to post on my blog again, something I have been remiss in doing because I am a busy, busy girl. I do not have the time or the energy to continue debating you after I’m done with this post, as it has become tiresome and I have a life to live.

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In the spare few moments between the time I woke up and the time I had to be at the store this morning, I read over a comment being held in moderation left earlier in the AM on my page that defines a fruit fly. I had about 5 minutes to spare and 20 or more emails to get through. The comment was long and wordy - when I’ve just come out of a sleep state, about the only words I can comprehend fully are cigarette and caffeine - so I put it off till later and went about getting ready for work. I returned to read the comment later from the store, when the dream cobwebs were gone from my brain (and yikes have I been having some odd dreams lately, but that’s a topic for another day), and I couldn’t help but be amused. Amy is quite put off - nay, sickened - by the expression “fruit fly”, and has admonished me to be ashamed that I do not want to associate myself with “fag hags.” How dare I!

I resolved that I would eventually use this comment as a spring board to actually POSTING something on this here blog again, but the important business of renting gay porn and selling Madonna DVDs would have to come first, as we are busier than ever at Diverse Universe these days. (Which, overall is a good thing, but is just one of the myriad reasons I’ve been leaving this blog to languish.)

But my oh-so-serious detractor returned, apparently miffed to the hilt at my not having approved her lengthy comment yet, with accusations of deletion and not being able to handle her “truth.” Apparently, such an “important discussion” deserved my immediate attention. Amy, I’m so sorry that you had to wait almost a full day for me to approve your comment and respond, but there were copies of Spy Cocks and Straight College Men to be rented out, and believe me, you don’t want to delay these things. That could have the makings of a riot in the store.

If you are not Amy and you are reading this, you should start by reading my “I am a fruit fly” page if you haven’t recently, then skip down to the first comment left by my Ms. Fag Hag. Then, come back here.

Ready? Here we go.

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