I’m having one of those days where the middle finger is answering every one of those questions posed to me. My phone and email are filled with messages from peeps following Saturday’s radio broadcast. Well, the reviews are in. Let’s see what they have to say:
New York Times: “CRAP!”
Cleveland Plain Dealer: “You”ll never date in this town again Snarky Kat!”
Disgruntled ex-beau email: “You are a fucking liar on your blog. You put up that phoney video of our date. What you left out was what a fucking lying cunt you are. Bitch you were all over me. You are only a cock tease. I wouldn’t fuck you with someone else’s dick.”
Another gent that wouldn’t fuck me with someone else’s dick including Dan Pelko’s: “I wasn’t insecure. That was bullshit.”
Entitled navel lint jackbag: “You will have sex with that douche bag on the radio but you wouldn’t give me a hand job? U bashed me on your show and in your blog. You are suck a fake!!”
“Cleveland Dawg”: an overly sensitive sports enthusiast that probably tapes a stadium pal to his legs : “U pic on men that love nascar to be funy but u ain’t. U r a bitch”
Annoyed OK Cupid gent that has never met me: “You believe your own legend BIOTCH. You are the fakest of them all.”
Obviously, with this kind of feedback I will think twice about doing a radio show in the future…. once…..twice…… Okay, just thought about it and I CAN’T WAIT TO DO ANOTHER ONE COCKSUCKERS!!! Next time I will be naming names and showing penis pics.
You just can’t win for trying. No matter how sexy the pics I post of myself. I hit the air waves last Saturday, as a neutered snarkless snatch. It is a lying pile of pixels to suggest I bashed anyone. I sure as fuck could have but I didn’t. Were you guys even dialed into the same show I was on, because I mostly picked on myself? Call me a bitch fine… but a fake? Why I have never faked sarcasm a day in my life! As for picking on NASCAR… I stand corrected because I am indeed in error. Clearly, “Cleveland Dawg” I missed a prime opportunity to pick on your spelling and grammar. Silly me. Okay, I won’t gristle my fellow Ohio compatriots any more with negative jokes of NASCAR or the Cleveland Browns, even though the rest of the country, parts of Canada and lower Mongolia are all in on the joke. Instead, I will play nice and stick to other comedic gold making jokes about rape and abortion, since you gents seem to think those are belly aching fun.
So now for the worst feedback I received, from my most recent ex-beau… he is not a happy camper with me. I know this because he defriended me on Facebook. We all know Facebook defriending is like the modern day version of the Scarlet Letter.
My kitty has been branded unworthy. Not good enough to belly up to the same trough as his other 985 “close friends.”
Anyway, for the past few days he has laid out things I have written that helped to destroy us. Like when he told me I was delusional, I almost fell off my unicorn. But seriously, the thought of knowing my words hurt him in anyway, is really troubling to me because “this blog wasn’t what he signed on for.” The irony in that it was HE started this blog, it was HIS idea. He was excited for me to do it. But truthfully, I don’t think either one of us knew the bizarre direction it would take. I never knew I would have 1,000 views a day and over 600 followers in less than a 3 month time period. I surely didn’t know I would be doing radio gigs and a staged show from it.
Every day readers tuned into see the latest dating car crash. While in a relationship with him, I continued to blog. He wanted me to. He didn’t want me exposing that we were in a relationship because he felt people would lose interest. Much of the allure of this blog is hearing about me rectal riding a cock on my spiral stair case or watching an uploaded video of a date peeing off a bridge. So, I blogged of past dates trying to protect our relationship the best I could. That was a horrible decision. My beau had to read countless accounts of dates I had right before we started dating. Sex I had with other men, while he patiently sat in the wings. Sometimes I would vent in my blog my hurts. Forgetting in the moment that my emotionally vomiting was being read and reblogged by hundreds of people. Video may have killed the radio star but the blog killed my love life.
I see that my former no longer follows my blog. But I don’t need his eyes on this page for me to feel the sting of what I’ve caused. I need hold myself accountable. I have spent all day going over things I could have done differently. I wish I could rewind and make different choices, not so much so that we would be together now, but more to avoid ever hurting him. I regret those knee jerk reactions to pain I had, that exposed our relationships weaknesses and highlighted our personal flaws. I regret if he ever felt chiseled or berated by me. Erase those times he felt like just another audience member. I used this blog, a gift he gave to me in love at times against him. I should have done better. It isn’t always important to have the last word, sometimes a moment calls for a listening heart. I am not liking myself today for making trespasses against him. He was very good to me until he wasn’t. Perhaps I bear more responsibility for that change in his behavior than I had originally thought. We deserved more of a loves chance than this blog allowed.
It has been suggested both in the blog by others and on the radio show that any man who couldn’t handle the fact I blogged about my dating life, really at their core had insecurity in themselves. A real man wouldn’t be bothered to learn that I blog. Really? How many men would hold up inside such a petri dish of dysfunction? Was it a weakness in my former beau to leave this world because he wasn’t “man enough” or was it more that he was adult enough to realize when something wasn’t healthy for a relationship? (By the way, no one answer that if anyone plans on bashing him.)
I don’t think many men could handle being partnered with me over sharing my life or in dealing with the constant barrage of sexual commentary and detailed accounts of sex romps with other men. I absolutely don’t think it is a weakness in any man to not want to be a part of this. More, I think it is a fucked up flaw in me. Since I will going public soon with a stage show, I will be forever connected to this blog. With that decision, I have probably sealed my fate that I will never be in another serious relationship again.
Oh, and there are those gents that say the perfect thing to allow me to believe they would support me no matter what. They proudly boast they could handle walking beside the poster girl of bad dating decisions as she takes to performing this blog theatrically to the masses. I don’t know about that. A gal who posts videos of women fucking egg plants or a blow by blow account of how I suck cock, must really be representing the girl of your dreams. Yeah, it will be interesting and fun… like vaginal thrush. Think about it. What don’t I over share? Next post: Pictures of my aged placenta. And Friday a new instructional how to video on giving a proper hand job as demonstrated on my pup Sid.
Yeah. Who wants to board this crazy train? Come on. I must seriously question the sanity of any man that wants to date me after reading this blog.
It takes two to ruin a relationship, unless you are a blogger. Than it takes a village. I over shared too much. And what my key stroke didn’t destroy, my lacerating tongue more than made up for. I have learned valuable lessons from murdering this past relationship. Like, I won’t hide future relationships away for appearances sake. If I fall in love again, this blog goes from dating / sex blog, to a relationship blog, if it remains a blog at all. I will forever taste my words before I
spit type them out about someone I care for.
Aside from my former beau, any of the rest of you gents that have a problem with what I have blogged, I would invite you to call me so we can get together. I would love to share with you a nice hot cup of java and a big hot steaming cup of SHUT THE FUCK UP!
If you were blogged about unfavorably, ask yourself if you deserved it. My heart wasn’t a dumpster. My vagina wasn’t a drawer pull. And my wallet wasn’t your ATM. No one knows who you are when I write about you. I don’t use your name. So unless you are peeing off bridges with your curved penis’s, and grabbing snatches on every date that you are on, no body knows who you are. Most of all, no one really cares. Common sense: so rare I know, it’s like a super power isn’t it? So look, you can stop going on the attack. In order for you to insult me I would have to first value your opinion.
And we are world’s away from that.