It didn't work, but I thought it was so engrossing that at least the best bits should be shared, complete with links to the original posts. Little did I know that Amy would delete her blog within minutes of my publishing, leaving me virtually sole (one-stop) caretaker of her whole body of work. Sort of like finding a baby abandoned on my doorstep, only it's a really sick baby, and one of its arms comes out of the middle of its chest, and it's covered with meconium. Also it tries to bite people.
Amy cited privacy as the reason for her blog's deletion. However, she was more than willing to Tweet my article's address to people and continue to draw people's attention to writing containing her two months' worth of violations of another person's privacy. She was also willing to legitimize it by contributing to the comment section on it. (Notably the first thing Amy was upset about was that I didn't use my full name when blogging about her, to which the only real reply is, How stupid do you think I am?)
It seems fairly obvious that privacy is just a much nobler-sounding excuse for scurrying away from the internet than "my inexcusable and frightening behavior cannot stand up to scrutiny, and I have no response for well-justified ridicule." Amy's conduct suggests she's perfectly happy being on the internet, just on her terms, where you can't hold anything against her.
In the last 24 hours, people with more info on Amy have IMmed or emailed me extra details, asking for more content and for me to share with others. Given that I've already accidentally wound up online trustee to crazy, let's be completist about the whole thing. Below are some things about Amy I didn't get to in writing my brief summary, a link to a truly disturbing post about suicide on her supposed "work" blog, and finally more excerpts from "Brian Schofer: Emotionless Engineer."
Lastly, I maintain the suspicion that I aired in the comments section on my earlier article: I believe Amy's libels come from her resentment that Brian is moving on, because Brian Schofer is a legitimate fuckmaster, a paragon of the pussy prestidigitation, able to idly flick a lady's sweet meat into puddles of quivering ecstasy without a second thought. Amy cannot cope with a world in which she goes back to only dating men after spending ten years fully Brisexual. Brian Schofer came across as so hot in Amy's blog that I'm pretty sure just talking about it to a friend of mine is gonna make her miss her period. I'm picturing Brian Schofer in my head right now, and all he's doing is literally dunking so fucking hard the rock shatters the asphalt on a public court.
POUND IT, BRIAN, POUND IT.
"I DIDN'T KNOW THE BOOK THING MEME IS ABOUT CATLADIES"
As said above, Amy deleted her vicious blog less because of privacy and more because the internet was impudently operating on terms other than hers. Looking at the rest of her online presence, it becomes very obvious that Amy is used to an atmosphere of affirmation.
She used to have four blogs and one website cross-posting and repeating her content. (For all her cries about Brian Schofer's privacy, she still has a post up about him on her main blog, in which she laments no longer giving him the gas station convenience store of sexual maneuvers, the Handy J.) While it double-dips on casual viewers, getting referral traffic from one's own content and giving the impression of greater productivity than one actually generates, the important point is that it's essentially like nesting online. There was Amy's serious media site and Amy's serious media blog and Amy's vengeance blog and Amy's dating blog — then, finally, a review blog to which she was a member. See how many sites liked Amy? Five!
More importantly, Amy took advantage of one of the easiest insta-communities one can tap into online: book blogs. Yesterday I wrote, "the new millennium's favorite pastime of shut-in catladies [is] posting daily book-blog memes.... Book-blog meme clubs are the new version of webrings devoted to miscarried fetuses." The last line is mostly joking, but it should be familiar to most people who've spent a long time online and especially remember the weird support-group communities that grew up around Angelfire and Geocities pages in the late-1990s. Nonetheless, these book club blog rings and blog posting memes provided two things Amy needed: validation and pageloads.
The majority of people who run book blogs/blog rings are women, predominantly empty-nesters looking for something to occupy their idle hours. Some are younger housewives; some are retirees; there are even teen girls (read: the Twilight fan demographic) who post enthusiastically up to the moment they turn 16. Like their older counterparts, they're essentially filling days trapped at home. It's telling how quickly this pastime disappears as soon as they're not.
These groups aren't really about book discussion: they're about creating a community online. The goals are to kill time, feel good, trade in-jokes under the auspices of talking about a shared interest. Members are very positive, collegial and smart at promoting each other. However, how this happens is pretty much content-free quid pro quo. Someone follows your blog, so you follow theirs, then you post a blog entry about how you're following a wonderful new blog. You retweet each other on Twitter.
Then there are daily book-meme posts, like "Mystery Monday" and "Favorite Excerpt Friday" — they're all sort of like this — where everyone blogs a list of books (sometimes with a picture+link), and then finally one "hub" blog posts all the names along with links to the blogger who provided each one. Sometimes the memes involve randomly opening a book, picking the second paragraph on whatever page it opens to, then blogging the third sentence of the second paragraph of the first page you opened to. 3-2-1... blog post! This too will be re-blogged by someone else, along with links.
Notice the one common thread running through all these blog posts is that they're virtually devoid of content or effort. Think of a name—now, quick, post it! You've blogged today! Time for pinot grigio—it's in the fridge and open already, no one will know. A guy I know literally started a blog with the cheapest-looking Blogger template possible, started following as many book blogs as he could find, participated daily in book-blog memes and never posted a book review or a blog post longer than five sentences, and in three weeks, he had over 150 followers on Google, to say nothing of Twitter followers, Facebook or RSS feeds. It's that easy.
Now, there are tremendous book blogs out there, and many of them take part in these memes, but they're the exception that proves the rule. Most are like the ones who followed my friend: they're not in the book business; they're in the affirmation business. "You have a blog, I will acknowledge that it exists, that you are important." Or, "You have blogged today. My reblog validates you."
This is the second audience Amy nested in, one that's so uncritical it doesn't even bother to criticize the things it's ostensibly there for. Outside the boundaries of Amy's own mini-webring of her own sites mutually validating themselves, she found another group of people to do that for her in a way that was virtually categorically unthreatening.
I've worked in online book promotion and publishing, and these people drive the sales of booksellers and the pageloads of Goodreads. They may not like talking about books beyond "I wish I was this character in real life" and "I didn't like this part," but they do buy a lot of things and represent a powerful and sought-after demographic. Essentially, Amy did a smart thing by not only hunkering down in a community where no one ridicules anyone else's ability to write or to deconstruct a book. But she also did a very smart thing by hunkering down in one that also tends to buy the same books and DVDs that, in between posting book blog memes, Amy reviews at a steady clip. Why? Because:
"I HAVE A MASTER'S IN JOURNALISM!"
This is the house-proud "I drive a Dodge Stratus!" plea of those going nowhere and desperate to keep you unaware of it. Amy has to keep flinging names and titles at you, because they help to obscure the quotidian failure underneath. This is why she mentions growing up in Acton instead of Natick, because, as commenter eochu wisely pointed out:
Anyone who isn't native just sees a bunch of people who look alike, bend the English language in the same way, and act like jerks. A Masshole is a Masshole, whether it spent its childhood shoveling expensive-pony shit or playing stickball in the warehouse district.
Amy has to mention that she grew up in Acton and rode horses for 20 years, because that draws attention to her possibly being special, the scion of some Brahmin clan, and away from the fact that she probably lives in some craphole downtown flat and is manifestly fucking insane.
Similarly, Amy needs to tell you that she has a Master's in journalism, because otherwise all anyone will notice is that she's an unpaid blogger selling product to you and free promotion to publishing houses, badly. Pick absolutely any archived month on her navigationally poor "serious" blog, and you will find book meme after book meme and the same types of reviews. She invariably has little more to offer than a chunk of text about the size of two paragraphs mashed together. Posts feature clumsy grammar and usage errors. Facts provided are not necessarily factual. What is there fact-wise looks like it was cribbed from a Wikipedia article or an editorial review on Amazon.com in the same way that kids in elementary school will do a report on something by rewriting an encyclopedia entry sentence by sentence. Most of these could have been stolen from Amazon reviews and copied-and-pasted.
Everything else is just fangurrrrl posting and post-padding. To borrow an evaluative tool she uses, STEELE RECOMMENDS: "Consider killing yourself instead of reading these." She posts about movies coming out and speculates whether they'll be good; posts about them again when they're in theaters and reviews them; posts about them again for their DVD release, and again reviews them. It looks like creative activity, but it's not. All three reviews — speculatively banal, authoritatively banal and re-banal — feature the same promotional art. This can be confusing, because those same pictures will be used in other blog posts like, "Men I Love to Watch" and "Women I Love to Watch," which sounds reasonable but is less honest than just cutting the same pictures out of magazines and gluing them to pink construction paper and surrounding them with glitter hearts.
Now, in the course of working in online promotions and publishing — as well as FUCKING SHREDDING in my band, we're called MotoCrücifix — I've run across a lot of people like Amy, and they tend to fit into a pattern.
First, a frustrated would-be writer who has a day job reinvents herself online as a "journalist" and pretends that is her sole profession. Then she joins media message boards or writes directly to publishers requesting promotional copies of any new books or DVDs they have. Eventually she gets a promo copy of some media, immediately churns out a basically positive review (Amy's negativity is almost exclusively consigned to carping about misogyny and sexism in media, which absolutely no media company minds, because again they target the online women's demographic), then puts that post on her cover letter and sends in another request for promo copies. The more she gets, the more credits she has; the more credits she has, the more reliable she seems and thus the more promo copies she will receive.
Next, the soi-disant journalist offers her advance reviews, free, to any local publication that will need them, some version of Creative Loafing — in Amy's case, it's the Weekly Dig* — an entertainment newspaper that has to review lots of media weekly, doesn't have a lot of money, and doesn't have a lot of staff. (Papers that actually have staff and Pulitzers on the mantle, like the Boston Phoenix, are able to pass, reaping only the hot lash of furious retributive blogging.) Thus they're willing to take any free suff that fills inches, isn't clinically retarded and appears relevant. Blammo, the blogger is now a published journalist.
1. I consulted with MrDestructo's in-house counsel, Mr. Awesome, and he assures me that posting the whole thing would constitute outright theft and be pretty easy to complain about. I guess it's fine if you're an archive site and that's your mandate. However, as I make some money off this and obviously wouldn't be doing it as a celebration of the author, it's pretty easy to call foul on me. So no dice.
* — Note, in this linked post, Amy posts her phone number, email address and physical address. This information is probably the source of the "Brian Schofer" who allegedly posted her personal information, prompting her retaliating by posting all of his. In short, Amy's really concerned about Brian's privacy and hers, unless she's too wrapped up in bitching about how some countercultural entertainment rag fucked her over by not printing her free review. In that case, time to just copy-paste absolutely anything.
Clippings in hand, she appeals again to publishers, this time soliciting interviews with authors. These are a lot easier to come by than you think, because basically nobody really gives a shit about 90% of authors, and authors are vain and like talking about themselves. If the publishing company sees that she has regular clippings and a steady blog without shit like swastikas all over it, they'll probably pass on interview questions she submitted via email. Blammo: the blogger has now interviewed Jonathan Lethem. Whatever.
Pretty much anyone with a 12th-grade education reading this right now could wind up credited as a published journalist and interviewer of authors within about three months with the same steady blog output Amy produces. It's got nothing to do with quality and everything to do with regular product and persistence. She has to tell you she's a published journalist and interviewer because those claims are the only rewards. Unless she sells the books and DVDs, there's no money involved. The titles obfuscate the ugly reality of taking an unpaid job at the bottom rung of the sales departments of several companies that don't actually employ her. Ultimately, this is the reason why you hear so much about that Master's degree: it's an expensive title you'd have to work a lot harder to get, one that makes her seem really smart. Because otherwise people notice that expending a lot of effort to profitlessly promote product for million-dollar companies is really stupid.
AMY LIKES ATTENTION FROM "JOKING" ABOUT SUICIDE
Hardly surprising. Amy likes attention. However, in this case, she likes pushing people's buttons by intimating that she might commit suicide, then gets the added enjoyment of self-righteously exploding at them when they take her seriously enough to actually demonstrate concern for her. What a freebie. It's the, "Please, God, Help Me/I AM NOT A FUCKING BABY!!!" syndrome that probably everyone has seen at least once. What makes Amy unique, though, is that it's the Massachusetts' Governor's fault.
From a blog post entitled, "Hazards of Putting Emotions on Twitter," take us away, Amy:
So I've been depressed more than usual. I'm clinically depressed and have anxiety like many well-known writers (William Syron, David Foster Wallace, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf etc.) and I've seen a wonderful therapist for six years and also see a psychiatrist for meds.
Right away she lets us know that she doesn't have a really common ailment that millions of people have; she has a really common ailment that a few famous people have. It's like starting a blog post, "So, I'm morbidly obese, like comedian John Candy, actor John Goodman or Rush Limbaugh," instead of just saying, "Hi, I look like one third of every Wal-Mart."
The only two explanations she could have for naming these famous people are: one, she thinks her talent is on par with these famous people; or, two, she thinks there's some kind of Transitive Property of Disease, some reverse engineering of good fortune that makes people who lose sight in one eye start seeing stately plump Buck Mulligans everywhere.
Sometimes I don't have any way to express my frustrations except to the captive audience of Twitter or Facebook and herein lies the problem.
"It's inexcusable how people in real life tend to shy away from others who try to extort trips to the emergency room from their exes after slashing their wrists open by punching through a pane of glass while breaking into the ex's house. Welp, time to teach those folks a lesson about abandonment!"
*ties off bungee cords connecting golf cart to wheelbarrow of pony shit*
*drives away very slowly*
Let's not get bogged down here, let's find out why Deval Patrick is a dickhead:
My best guess is that someone from the Mass Governor's office called the Somerville Police because I had talked to a girl earlier, she had my name and my cell # showed up on caller ID. I made a snide remark when she asked if she could do anything else because she wouldn't give me HER name even though I asked for it three time. Very sarcastically I said, "If you know a hitman."
So, er, yeah. The injustice here is that she spoke to someone in Governor Patrick's office, someone probably very concerned about liability, and made comments that sounded like threats to harm herself. In fact, it sounds like she was speaking to someone related to a suicide-prevention call center who was deliberately referred to her case by Patrick's office, given that this sort of shit doesn't exactly "turn up" in the conversation. Or maybe it does, it's Amy, SHE HAS A MASTER'S DEGREE.
All right, well, despite all that maybe there's a reasonable explanation for the misunderstandi—
[If you live in Mass. you need to know and recognize sarcasm and you don't immediately call the police, you get someone above you in the Governor's office to call me and follow up on the remark!]
This roight heah, you facks who come heah frahm yer floyovah staytes, youwah bettah undahstand sahcasm, it'sa liddle thing we thowat up alahng with the muthafachkin graytest bowall club evah, the Bahstahn Red Sawx and the graytest QB evah, Towmmy Brady.
Anyway, having assigned all blame to some poor public servant's inability to understand the strange but sublime atonal rhythms to Amy's language, she goes on to post several tweets that somehow(?) also contributed to someone official(?) thinking that she was going to kill herself:
Breakfast of the depressed. Tea and 2 clonipin.Does anyone know a suicide hotline # or good Samaritans. I need to talkYou'd think I'm planning to disappear as I'm giving things away, getting rid of things.My situation is hopeless at this point. 40, single, a MS degree, CMA, no job, just lousy. nothing to live for. @MassGovernorand ps. @MassGovernor my threat was a JOKE.Do I really want to apply for food stamps? I'm a member of the MFA, ISGM, ICA, Coolidge Corner Theatre. Is that someone on food stamps?All my friends from college are scattered around the US and world (Tunisia). It's really lonely/miserable.What do you do when the person you talk to most doesn't want anything to do with you anymore?
So there it is, it finally comes out: she sent suicidal tweets at the fucking Twitter feed of the fucking Governor of Massachusetts, then got all bent out of shape that nobody detected her "tweet sarcasm," then got outraged that someone who read her asking for a suicide hotline and describing her situation as hopeless maybe read a little more into asking for a hitman.
Of course, the representative from suicide prevention is further at fault for not reading her blog, which amazingly she basically references by plugging it:
Oh and if I'm so depressed why have I done recent interviews with Jonathan Lethem, Chris Bohjalian, Katherine Howe, Barbara Delinsky, Courtney Sullivan and Jessica Shattuck
and have upcoming interviews with Rachel True, Rian Johnson (Brothers Bloom), Tiffany Thiessen, Mary Karr, Jennie Shortridge and Lisa Tucker?
Why do people planning suicide go to their jobs for weeks beforehand? Why do they often shower, shave and dress on the day they do it? Why don't we ever learn that for the last three weeks, all three meals of the day were just "a shitload of McGriddles"? Why doesn't this fucking bint who's trying to make Amy not die have any familiarity with popular modern novelists and a former star from Saved by the Bell (ZACK > SLATER, 4-EVER)? Why does Amy have to explain the import of all this to her over the phone? Why hasn't this person already been following her blog? WHY DOESN'T EVERYONE HAVE A MASTER'S DEGREE???
The two commenters on the blog post are both really sweet. They're obviously concerned about a stranger. The first writes: "I am so sorry to hear that you had a hard time... but you did come across as being suicidal. I am pleased that someone cared enough to have someone look in on you - I would much rather that happened than you ended up in a body bag. I am really pleased to hear that you aren't feeling suicidal." The second adds, "I am glad you are okay, and that it was a 'false alarm.' Please do know that people care about you and that although the help was not welcome, it speaks more about how you are valued than anything else."
Naturally, Amy's response is to flip the fuck out:
If I REALLY WANTED TO KILL MYSELF, I WOULD HAVE ALREADY DONE IT. I'VE BEEN DEPRESSED SINCE I WAS PROB. 12 YEARS OLD AND ON MEDS SINCE 18. NO ONE KNOWS MY STRUGGLES. MY MOM IS STILL ALIVE AND MY DEATH WOULD DEVASTATE HER.
Jesus Christ, people are relieved to discover someone's not dead, and somehow unrelated things are still their fault. Why didn't these morons focus on the mother comments in the blog as opposed to the tweets and their overwhelming sense of helplessness and despair? Clearly, the proper way to respond to them is with the same textual formatting that you might more typically see in the completely rational temper tantrums of underage children, on torrent sites, in the comments section for a zipfile called, "stolen.college.amateur.nudes.500.pics.zip" with someone raging, "WHERE IS THE PASSWORD I CNAT UNLOCK THE FILE IF U DON'T GIVE ME TEH PASSWORD I WILL HACK U PIECE OF SHITS ALSO PLZ POST MORE PICS OF RAMMING & ALSO DOLPHIN."
The best part, of all, is buried in the middle, easy to scan past if you're trying not to look too close and risk getting crazy on your eyeballs. It is this:
My mother would be DEVASTATED if I killed myself and I need to help take care of my 36 y.o. pony Easter.
Look, since no matter what I read into this whole blog post, it will clearly be the wrong lesson anyway, let me ask this: what the fuck kind of adults have ponies? Why?
"I know: I'm gonna buy a really bigassed animal that's ridiculously expensive to keep and care for, and I'm going to have him for, shit, about as long as Dark Side of the Moon has been a record. But what I'm also gonna do is pay to have a special breed that's stunted and makes it impossible for him to be ridden by fat people — famous examples of whom include Falstaff, Orson Welles, Marlon Brando, and me."
GREAT FUCKING IDEA, IDIOT. You just spent a shitload for an animal, then you selected a special brokeass mini version of it. It's like paying through the nose for a car, then paying through the nose again to make it a lowrider. You bought a lowrider animal. HOW CAN YOU MAKE FUN OF WHITE TRASH WHEN YOU OWN THE EL CAMINO OF HORSES?
"BRIAN SCHOFER: EMOTIONLESS ENGINEER": BEST OF THE REST
Okay, through the offices of a really nice person on Twitter who happened to find Amy's blog over a month ago and began following it devotedly, I wound up with a full archive of her blog, not just the last ten or so posts from February. However, I'm not going to post it, for two reasons:
2. The archive is pretty fucking dull. Yesterday, I posted everything I thought was obviously entertaining. Granted, I expected people to click the links and go exploring on their own, but most of the high points were already covered. You know when bands release a second greatest hits album years after their first one, and it's clear that no one had planned on making two greatest hits albums? You know how that's never good? Okay, that's sort of what I'm getting at here. The follow up can't be as good as the first one, so making it even more comprehensive is dumb.
That said, I'll slog through and post some more, and hopefully that's all the searching anyone ever needs to do for Amy Steele, apart from whenever they eventually dredge the Charles looking for her. All formatting/emphasis is hers, but I skipped almost all of it, as the PDF archive I was sent had format problems when I tried to copy and paste from it.
When I met Brian, I had just been through a strange dating year: dating a lead singer in a local band; a waiter/actor; a biker guy who I could only reach by his pager (no red ﬂag there) and various hook ups with more musicians; guys completely wrong for me and even a professional baseball player.
Mo Vaughn, no!
Engineers like shipping product. Brian would encourage me to the point of solid measured results only. He would say to me, if you get to x weight, I will buy you a new VCR.
"I do not own a new VCR."
I can't look around my place and not be reminded of Brian Schofer and that makes it really difﬁcult to forget about him and MOVE ON. But if he doesn't care at ALL about me than what can I DO about it anymore. He can work at Akorri or wherever and fuck the girl-next-door and stop swearing at me so much an damaging me because he doesn't understand clinical depression and anxiety and has not tolerance or patience for it. Or EMPATHY>a few of the things:--the ﬂannel Patriots pajamas I wore to bed last night--Patriots polar ﬂeece sweats (which I can't ﬁnd and may never)--Decemberists hoodie--I adore it and wear it often. It's a "me item" for sure--fave Patriots polar ﬂeece--lime green rain jacket--Hard Rock Cafe sweat pants that I love to wear--puffy army green winter jacket--all his Army tees from Operation Desert Storm--Denver t-shirt--Colorado Rockies tee-Bette Midler tee
"I relied upon another human being to dress me solely with novelty clothing products. I one day hope to travel to Japan, where I hear they have bathrobes with pictures of their anime Emperor on them."
What I Will Miss Most About My Dear Friend BRIAN SCHOFERquietnessYour inability to express any emotionsmiming what you want [basically the Brian sign language so you can speak as little as possible—and I understand it]bluntness“constructive criticism”science lessons in your kitchen and at Brookline Public Library followed by dinner outlectures on ofﬁce/work behaviorgiving you the occasional handy j (hand job for those who don’t watch Chelsea Lately)when you say: “You got paid today. Let’s look at your budget.”when you say “No Amy”Even though you DESPISE me and would not accept my repeated apologies.
How is it possible to spend ten years with someone and believe a partnership exists when they alternately feel compelled to treat you like a child or like a person in a kind of servitude?
I never would date him again because the sex was unsatisfying for me. He didn’t like to kiss or do other things I liked to do and he only had sex when he wanted to and never cared about his partner’s pleasure only his own. Three weeks ago, he started dating a girl and decided that our decade-long friendship never meant anything to him. He basically just dumped me out with the week’s recycle items. He doesn’t care to try to make it work or to spend ANY time with me. Which leads me to think: what did that ten years mean to him anyway? It was my entire 30s.
This theme comes up over and over: sexual disregard over a decade, followed by dismissal. Look, I hate to have to be the one to finally suggest this, but when this happens, you are not the primary sexual interest for a person. If a guy shows up periodically for handjobs, you're basically a dick attendant.
But he’s an emotionless engineer. He never could express his feelings about anything. Looking back he was often verbally abusive. He put down my journalism degree, my writing goals, my “freelance writing” (whether or not I got paid), he thought reading novels was a “waste” of time yet could sit at the computer and play silly video games for hours or watch The Simpsons. You cannot knock reading. He never read anything I wrote because it didn’t interest him.
"Why were his attitudes toward my writing identical to virtually everyone's?"
I need to work where I feel I belong without completely changing my character and personality and I am contributing to the institution. If I stepped out of his box of what he considered “proper behavior,” he would tell me I had made a scene or acted irrationally. Most recently he didn’t like that I showed up at his place of work and then [I will admit childishly] drove around the parking lot beeping my horn. It was the end of the day and no one was really around. But he’s overly sensitive.
"Me and Herbie the Love Bug went bananas tootin' round the parking lot while I screamed shit about Handy J's to the parking attendant. What the fuck is wrong with this? I really need to fix things by trying to feel like I belong without changing my character, despite the fact that I wrote a 2,000-word essay about how being with an engineer obliged me to completely change my character."
I’m so hurt and I’m so tired. I’m tired of being the woman guys want to fuck or be friends with but not both. I can’t believe he stole my 30s from me with no intention of continuing what I thought to be a great friendship. I just don’t know how I will repair myself after this abandonment. This willful decision to end such a close, nearly indescribable (we slept in the same bed together and spooned) long-term friendship.
"THEN I LUBED MY HANDS AND JERKED HIS DICK OFF UNTIL HIS CUM, THE TASTE OF WHICH I HAVE DESCRIBED ON MY BLOG, SPRAYED ON MY LEG OR SOMETHING. IT WAS JUST LIKE THE SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING PANTS OR SOME OTHER TOTALLY TIGHT PLATONIC BONDING SHIT, EXCEPT FOR MY CRANKIN' OUT BLASTS OF MAN-BATTER WITH MY SAMURAI-LIKE HANDY J MASTERY. EVERY MOVEMENT IS A FUCKING SYMPHONY, NOW TRY TO TAKE THIS MOSQUITO FROM MY FINGERS."
I also totally dig the immediately contradictory parenthetical after she uses the word "indescribable." It's like, "Oh, well, I can describe it a little. It involved sleeping arrangements."
This is just to make you think about me. NOT a diss to the new chick that you've know a few weeks. But to remember your friend you've known a DECADE. Does she wear t-shirts, pony tails, pink hats and jeans like every other girl? Can she write?
LMAO, why the fuck would the last one be a dealbreaker now?
Is she sarcastic?Does she have a masters degree?Did she graduate from a women’s college?
"Would you refuse to go down on her or even hold her hand in a theater, but later she'd yank your crank right into the rolled-up sheepskin she got from Boston Mothershitting University in the field of Journojizzin' Cockmeat Right Up?"
Yes. Full bed baths. He'd just lie there and I'd undress him as I would any patient and then I'd wash his arms and chest, then legs and feet. Flip him over and wash his back and the backs of his arms and feet and he loved it because he was being pampered. I would towel dry each section as I went along and lotion him up too. No dry skin for little Brian. He could just lie there and have me do this to him and the majority of the time he'd get totally turned on. So many times he'd get a happy ending.
Every new revelation makes Brian sound like some kind of judo master capable of using any momentum of any person around him against them. Not only does he get away with a general attitude of disdain that trains his woman to give him maximum distance while minimizing the time she importunes him, the man is literally training her to give him handjobs in the event he becomes a quadriplegic.
The Handy J [as Chelsea Handler likes to refer to it], or hand-job. is an art form. And I’m pretty good at them. I’ve got some special tricks and techniques that I like to use to give the guy I’m with complete pleasure and a full release. I know how to use my hands to their greatest capacity and have an excellent skill set sexually. Brian... loved to get a Handy J in the morning. All through our 8-year-long friendship I continued to give him hand jobs. I was getting sex from guys I was dating over the years. He didn't date anyone all that time.
"Yeah I kept giving him handjobs when he wanted it. OWNED, MOTHERFUCKER. FUCKING OWNED!!! Ahahahaha, seriously though, sometimes I didn't even lift the dining chairs when vacuuming. Stuff that up your horse, jocko. (Big horse, not stunted horse.)"
He will not read any of the reviews I writeHe does not regularly read my web siteHe will not read the relatively short children’s book [8 pages double-spaced] I spent many hours researching and writing (but he will give me plenty of advice on marketing and telling me it will not sell)He says things to me like: “I like you but I think you’re going to collapse and die. You’re going to be eating out of dumpsters in two years.” When I start to talk he walks away if I don’t get right to the point in three minutes or less.He compartmentalizes his life: family/work/you. Nothing blends/mixes/no one crosses paths.He gets popcorn at the movies and doesn’t offer me any and also only gets a drink for himself.He calls me a drug addict and I take prescription pills for anxiety, yet he downs AN ENTIRE BOTTLE OF WINE HIMSELF IN ONE EVENING, OR AT ONE MEAL. YET HE is NO an ALCOHOLIC?He’s not affectionate. No hugging and deﬁnitely very few kisses. Never unexpected ones. I am more agressive sexually (not that there's anything wrong with that.)He remembers ﬁve bad things I did and one good thing.You tell him you got an article published in a well-known NY publication and he doesn't even congratulate me and actually sounds non-plussed about it.He tells you that my liberal arts degree and masters in journalism degree are useless.He says it is a waste of time to read novels.
How on earth does anyone spend ten years with another human being who expends absolutely zero effort to disguise his feelings of utter contempt?
Also, I really appreciate the offer of paying for me to attend LPN school. I would love to do the program but obviously our "decade-long" friendship was a waste of my 30s and is OVER and you never want to see me, talk to me, and email me ever again so I am taking care of that for you. Goodbye.
This is the best thing: apparently Brian's such a complete jerkoff (word came in handy) that he doesn't want to talk anymore, but he has offered to pay her way through an expensive trade school that would change her life. Of course, that's unforgivable, but something about how her 30s were wasted because a guy she wasn't dating isn't dating her is evidently the sort of perfect reason to waste her 40s as well. Good job.
Brian Schofer has untreated Herpes Simplex (cold sores)Yes, pretty much everyone has them but Brian Schofer, the emotionless engineer, refuses to go to his PCP for an Acyclovir prescription and antibiotics is the only way to get rid of a virus. So, not that he's been doing much kissing in the past eight years but if he has at all, he's been spreading it around.
"Stuff your cold sore back up your checkbook, Daddy Herpbucks." Also, note that despite allegedly having some sort of nursing training, Amy's demonizing this guy for not getting an antibiotic treatment for a virus. Antibiotics don't do shit to viruses. She might as well rage at him for not getting an appendectomy to shave his mustache. Maybe there's a Governor's Council on herpes she could tweet at.
Brian Schofer gave me this key to use his truck and can be so stubborn. I moved his truck (the geek was never in a fraternity or didn't go to MIT--where there are also fraternities) so didn't see the humor or the "how did she do that?" in it. Instead he talked about Grand Theft Auto etc. But he GAVE me the key. I'm willing to give i back under certain circumstances.
"I'm literally bragging about auto theft and extortion on a blog Google crawls every other second."
I tried to cancel his [Boston Harbor Hotel] reservation for NYE b/c I had stayed there with him ﬁve times and didn't want him staying with someone else. I go over to his house and "trespass" when for ten years I cleaned dried poop and pubic hair off his toilets and hung out there quite a bit. it's sad really. that he can't see that these are minor versus what other people have done. I considered putting a nail in his tire before the Patriots game on Sunday but I don't want him
hurt. My therapist talked me out of something else too.
"My therapist talked me out of something else too." Try to conceive of what could have possibly been so bad that she thought, "That? Hoo, ain't bloggin' about that."
And he tells ME, the one with the masters in journalism that his communications skills are better than better but he cannot communicate his feelings/emotions and he has improper grammar. Nice.
"Most famous job in Notre Dame history... fourth and inches against USC, me, uh, an outside lineblogger, wrapped up Heywood's Iron Head for a loss. And the thing is, know this, brother, I have been examined by, uh, people with a Master's Degree, uh, Dr. Crob Pfoton at MIT, and he tells me that they have detected hysteria. So that's it, right there, proof, uh, that under pressure my personality actually explodes into soup. Okay? Look at me, age 40, body of a 22-year-old. And the thing is, man, 10 years I've been doing the Handy J, pumping that shaft like the stiff guitar neck it is? And, okay, ten years later, I did it again. 36Cs, trust and believe, brother. With hands."
Brian Schofer does not like to give oral sex so if you end up being his girlfriend, you might think again. Although there are those uptight, sexually repressed women who think it's "gross" for a guy to go down on them. Well, that is ridiculous because you know they are sucking his cock, even if they don't like it they do it. Sure, most don't swallow [I always do, unless I feel something funky tasting then I just let it casually drip out the sides of my mouth--usually happened with Brian--he tasted weird and smelled a bit weird too]. Brian doesn't know what he is doing. It is probably due to lack of experience. I think he had only been with a few women (3?) before me and I've been with 6x as many guys (conservatively)....I know that Brian has been with ﬁve women including me and would bet that he cannot count the number of women he's had sex with on both hands. At 39 years old, that's not a great track record. No wonder he sort of likes sex but isn't very good at giving a woman pleasure. I've had sex with 3x as many people as Brian has had times two.
This is kind of like having your wealthy and successful wife divorce you, and as she walks out the attorney's office for the last time, screaming, "I fucked 12 girls in college. I won the sex war!" and then driving home to sleep by yourself under a sheet that you've used as a napkin while eating a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
WHAT ARE YOU P-WHIPPED THAT YOU GOT INSTRUCTIONS NOT TO TALKTO ME OR DO ANYTHING WITH ME? THAT SEEMS SO UNLIKE YOU TOANSWER TO A WOMAN. TO LISTEN TO A WOMAN. YOU REALLY MUST HAVENEEDED SEX BAD. HOW LONG HAD IT BEEN BRIAN SINCE YOU PUT YOUR COCK IN A PUSSY? SIX YEARS?
Again, this comes back to the dick-attendant thing. When all you know of a guy sexually and socially is that he demands you keep your distance and then periodically appears and expects you to service him, you do not know who he is sexually. People are supposed to get through this shit in college. Yes, sometimes guys are assholes. Yes, sometimes they have women friends they like hanging out with on occasion and with whom they will engage in some sort of play. But her repeated comments about his drinking a lot around her and his expecting service without reciprocity sounds like a bad freshmen-girl/senior-guy college story. The guy doesn't find the girl attractive, but sometimes, damn, his plans fall through. He wants to get off, but he also wants a sure thing. Time to compromise, show up to the compromise-girl's dorm room with a movie and a 12-pack of beer, drink six beers as fast as possible to get past his guilt/disgust, make a move, get jerked off, wait until Spinal Tap reunites and the credits run, then say, "See you after class." You can't graduate college, much less get a MASTER'S DEGREE, without noticing this dynamic unless you're a total fucking moron or the sole inhabitant of a completely unique oblivion — either of which explanation fits Amy.
If your goal is to make me suffer and to hurt me forever and to ruin my life or get some sort of revenge on me by ignoring me and leaving me with a computer I can barely use, you're succeeding. insensitive FUCK. you are SO SELFISH. you think I am? I don't think so. I wouldn't throw away unopened a dozen CARDS you sent me and put time and effort into writing. Of course, you've never expressed anything in writing. EVER. EVER. EVER.
7. A few weeks ago, Brian essentially left me to die. I punched my hand through a window and texted and called him for nearly an hour that I needed a ride to BIDMC because I felt like I was going to pass out and didn't want to do that while driving. What is his takeaway? "You drove to my work to look for me." Well, FU Brian. Thanks for caring that I could have hit an artery and bled out. Perhaps next time, I will hit the right spot and just pass out and die. Would that make you happy?
On meds, yet referring to an incident involving breaking into his goddamned home.
Thanks for holding it against me and making me feel miserable that I've been struggling with a chronic mental illness since I was 16 years old. I may have ﬁnally found the right meds, right psychiatrist and treatment but it's TOO LATE for you. How convenient.
"Ooooh, suddenly ten years is a 'long time,' is it? It's just one-eighth a human life and one-sixth of your adult life, is it? Suddenly a period of time long enough to see three presidential terms or raise a kid to near self-sufficiency isn't long enough to put up with someone who breaks into your home and relocates pony shit periodically? Well do you SEE THESE HANDS? I wish I knew sign language, because they are about to scream the cum off their fingertips."
Also note that the chronic mental illness is here something that she knew about since age 16, but on another blog and in another circumstance is, "I'VE BEEN DEPRESSED SINCE I WAS PROB. 12 YEARS OLD AND ON MEDS SINCE I WAS 18." It's so traumatic that the details of it are migratory. It's the sort of thing that wrecks a life, but it could have happened at any point, really. Why get bogged down in something as trifling as the definitive moment in your mental genesis as an adult when we can talk about whatever sucks now? The generative moment is protean; only the excuse is concrete: "Whatever you're talking about now, the fault is something else—then."
3. Brian destroyed me and my trust in ANY men. How could Brian say he cared about me for all those years and support me and give me a safety net and say he'd always be there for me and "I'm not letting you go" and then let me go so easily.5. Brian fondled my tits, woke me up at 6 a.m. for hand jobs and never ever did I get any pleasure back. Even when we dated Brian was a selﬁsh lover. He didn't care if I got off, only that he got off. What an a-hole.9. Why would Brian spend a decade being my friend and hanging out with me so much and then just one day decide that he no longer wanted me as part of his life?
After ten years.
4. Brian thinks he can trade one vagina for another vagina-- so interchangeable.
THIS IS HOW IT WORKS WHEN PEOPLE YOU HAVE SEX WITH — BUT ARE NOT DATING — DATE SOMEONE ELSE WHO IS CAPABLE OF HAVING SEX.
Why would I punch holes in his condoms? I couldn't get into his house, remember. How would I have access? He once said that having kids was "the thing to do" and I thought that was a terrible reason to have them, so I decided to scare him by saying that.
"Look, I stole the guy's car, tried to track him to the homes of various family members, harassed him at work and then broke into his house. But look, how would I have had access to his condoms? That's absurd. Just stop and think this through. Men store condoms in an inaccessible vault."
Even my therapist, who holds a PhD and who I've seen for six years, could never understand my relationship with Brian. When Brian and I went to a therapy session together, my therapist said afterwards, "You are complete opposites. You're an extrovert and he is SO closed off." I thought the ying-yang made for a solid friendship. Apparently I was wrong.
"Over roughly the same duration that I spent platonically jerking off my non-boyfriend, someone went to graduate school in order to be clinically trained in understanding problems between people. Even with this wealth of knowledge amassed in schooling even more mystically powerful than a Master's Degree, this person cannot see any reason why we should be together. Clearly he is missing something. We just don't know what yet. Perhaps the answers can be found in this hank of hair I ripped out of Brian while he slept to determine if mitochondria are to blame."
A writer likes nothing more than to be read and to have people talking about her, good or bad. Your words don't hurt me. I'm arrogant and self-centered. I love it.
"I measure success in a resolute unwillingness to acknowledge the existence of failure or acknowledge others' citation of the same, even when their doing so involves quoting the documentation I methodically provided over four fucking blogs."
THAT'S ALL, FOLKS
There, that's it. That's Amy Steele.
Born in Acton in a basin unsurrounded by Brian Schofer's pubes or turds, she first made the trek, like, a bunch of blocks or something into the heart of Boston on a pony that is immortal. From there, she broke down doors and through windows and wrote her own scrips for success. Somehow after years of maintaining the best unofficial snail-mail fan club for the band Culture Club, she met Brian Schofer: an Eternal Fucklord with vast incomprehensible dick powers that caused even friends to cleave to it and pump with all their might to milk its glorious bounty. She stayed at a hotel on five different occasions.
She has almost been a nurse, blown glass and sent leaflets, and she completed the Boston Marathon in a Volkswagen. She cannot stop honking. Amy Steele has a blog that virally helps to sell slightly more units of products that would still sell in essentially the same quantities without her blog. Amy Steele has received products and viewed them and then noted that they have been handily touched by her, then described them with words. Amy Steele has a Master's Degree. You can eat shit. Put it on a blog and just look at those words until they become real.
Also, while I was writing this, my buddy Rig kept up a running commentary on the bits of her blog that he was reading. Everyone loves chatlogs — they're like tweets, but they come chronologically in a descending line, instead of the other way — so here's what happened.
PLAY US OUT, CHATLOG:
RIG: I'll take a Handy J from anybody, male or female.
ME: I really want The Handy J to become a thing. I just love that phrasing so much.
RIG: Let's buy an old rundown train station and fix it up and turn it into a bar. "The Handy J."
ME: I'm a bouncer at the Handy J. I have a dark past that I don't talk about.
RIG: Apparently The Handy J is a California car wash.
RIG: Open up a Handy J right next to an In-n-Out.
ME: I hope the Handy J has a buffered wash.
RIG: "This In-n-Out left me strangely unsatisfied. Welp, finish off the lunch hour with a trip to the Handy J."
ME: *sits in car as it moves through the wash, determinedly works knobs*
RIG: "Welcome to The Handy J! Lube or No Lube?"
RIG: "The nonchalance with which she mentions, 'Mom'll take care of it,' makes me picture some pendulous-breasted and beaten-down female version of Mr. Wolf from Pulp Fiction, some poor woman doomed to be too effective at fixing problems that shouldn't exist."
RIG: "I DRIVE REAL FUCKIN FAST PAST ACTON, SO KEEP UP."
RIG: *dresses Vincent Vega in a Natick HS T-Shirt*
ME: Vega dies on the toilet reading Leigh Montville's biography of Ted Williams.
RIG: Quentin Tarantino: "Doahks. They look like a coupla doahks."
ME: "Is theyah a soign aahhht heah sayin dead daahhhhhkie starrage?"
RIG: "Do you gnaw whaht they cawll a Quahtah Poundah in Natick?"
ME: "Fahck naw."
RIG: "They gaht nah class in Natick. They cawll it 'Fancy Food.'"