Dear Person Who Found My Blog At 11:29 On Saturday Night By Searching For Images of "Children's Panties" on Bing:
Back the fuck away. Seriously. This is no joke. I have your IP address which means I tracked down your name. I know where you live Mr. Livingston, New Jersey, and I have no problem giving your information to the FBI Child Predator Unit. Think I wouldn't? Try me.
Dear Everyone Else Who Might Read Me All the Time Or Maybe You Simply Stumbled Here After Googling Zebra Carcasses, Commuting or Both: My apologies for starting your work week off staring down the barrel of a gun. I could be wrong, but I don't think this is indicative of the rest of your week.
People suck. Sick fucks, this is not news, yet still I am surprised. Disgusted. Panicked, angry, saddened and everything in between. (You'd be surprised how many emotions live between hatred and despair.) I have deleted any photos of my daughter that might raise an eyebrow, or other. Going forward, I will write into the shadows as much as from a clean well-lighted place called Starbucks.
Maybe I am overreacting, sure. It wouldn't be the first time. When Nacho was a kitten we had him micro-chipped, a small something under the nape of his neck with our information. He is ours. He lives here. Please return him. If I could I would do the same in a second to Zoey. Better yet a lojack system that would tell me where she is at all times. Beepbeeep! Oh, I can hear it now, the right to privacy all Constitutional and civil libertarian. But she is only 3, and let's be honest here--I have not gone to the bathroom by myself for years now, Zoey at my knees asking what stinks. I think we laid bare any invasion of privacy the minute I got a plus sign on the pregnancy test, the veins on my breasts suddenly bright blue like a map. She lives here, she is mine, do not even touch her.
I don't want you to think that I think the world is ugly. More importantly, I don't want Zoey to think that I think the world is fucked. Outside the air smells like spring, calla lilies line our driveway. The other morning I saw a young man give a homeless guy a hot bagel all wrapped up which is not so terribly wonderful in and of itself except that they then shook hands and did that little half-man hug that guys do and I wanted to cry. The world is heartbreakingly beautiful and perfect but broken; what I trust more than anything battery-powered is that the only way to ensure my child's safety is some good old fashioned low-tech parental vigilance. I am not afraid.
Happy Monday, you guys. It may not seem it--most cities cannot even pay for street sweepers anymore--but it is, and we are. Clean, happy and strong.