Bruising the mind's eye

How does it go? Smart people talk about ideas, average people talk about events, dumbass dimwits talk about other people.

Then over here, you've got obsession.

There are these people who stalk me wherever I go on the Internet. I don't know why. It's not like they have any kind of actual history with me in the real world, or I'm writing one of their favorite comics, or they're trying to impress me with their wit and talent so I'll buy something they've written, or there's any other sane reason why they should want to interact with me.

It seems that this insane and overwhelming urge of theirs comes from insecurity; somehow I have stung their particular ego, or their specifically neurotic vanity, and now they can never rest until they prove themselves my superior in some regard.

Whenever I set up a blog, these people eventually condense in my comment threads, like soot particles. How they find me, I do not know, nor do I care. Nor do I overmuch trouble myself with who they really are, behind their doltish, pop culture derived pseudonyms or their banal anonymities. But what they do, what they always do, is ignore the ideas I'm trying to discuss on the blog, skip over even the events, and relentlessly, remorselessly, and, ultimately, tediously, discuss the people... or the person, which is to say, me.

This might be interesting, I suppose... I'm a fascinating fellow, at least to me and, irrefutably, to these sad dolts... but they have nothing to offer but barren spite and sterile, inconsequent pettiness. I am too erudite, they natter. I am overly wrathful, they snivel. I am excessively vindictive, they whimper. I clearly require psychotherapy, or at least medication, and I would be doing them, and the entire world, a favor if I were to just swallow an entire bottle of mood elevators at some point and put them out of their misery, they twitter.

These people, who ever they are, take offense not merely at the fact that I state my opinions forthrightly, and they therefore wish I would just shut up and vacate the Internet to the vague, vaporous vacuities they find most comforting. No, that will not content them. They want me dead. And from the safety of their pseudonyms, securely walled behind their anonymity, they fulminate their feeble fantasies like monkeys crapping into their own hands, and then fling them into my comment threads.

It's unpleasant to have to respond in any way to these empty headed malice mongers. But my comment threads are part of my blog, and as I do not want my comment threads to become little more than wallows of sad, pissy, inept invective, well, I have had to take steps. You will see them should you decide to privilege me with a response. These are sad, regrettable strictures which I dislike imposing on all of you, but they are made necessary by the cowardly bitterness of a sad and lonely few feces flingers. Their ilk has made the Internet a poorer place, but, well, the Internet is merely a reflection of the real world, and in the real world, I suspect these people are miserable and friendless, and their only pleasure lies in forcing those who must interact with them at work, or at the bus stop, or in line with them at Blockbuster Video, to be nearly as unhappy for those few moments of enforced society, as they are every other waking moment of their sad and shabby lives.

I will not give them house room. They are not welcome. They need not apply.

Now, the fact that I've spent an entire post talking about people, rather than ideas or even events, is a triumph for whoever these losers are, and one I hope not to repeat again.