Anonymous Hatred and a Computer-Free Day

Today is my First Annual “Shaft” Rant against all the people and things I hate.  How many of your favorites are on my list?

“Shaft” is one of my favorite movies because, in about ninety minutes, half the people in the tri-state area get shot.  With one exception, they’re not grisly evil disgusting tortured deaths—they’re just a whole lot of people who get shot, fall to the ground and, minutes later, pop up to get shot in another movie.

What’s good about this is that in one short movie I vicariously can get out all my frustration, anger and hate, then move on to being a nice person for the rest
of the week.  With this list I hope to accomplish the same soul cleansing, so here goes my “I hate” list.

  • I hate all the “basement dwelling P-S posters” who’ve surfaced to post nasty comments on the Post-Standard website about human beings in same-sex relationships who now legally and get married.  Thanks for all the love and respect you’re putting into the world, basement dwellers.
  • I hate Deanna Germain, who started my Sunday at 6:30 this morning with a comment on my blog about depression with “you’re fucked in the head anne.”  Who is Denna Germain and why is she swearing at me?
  • I hate the tenants of apartment 321 at McCarthy Manor, 501 S. Crouse Ave., who have kept their dog locked in their car for a year.  How could you?
  • I hate all the other tenants at McCarthy Manor who have known about this and not done anything about it.  How could you not?
  • I hate the JazzFest for advertising that it started at 3:00 p.m. Saturday when the music didn’t start until 5:00 p.m.  An hour and a quarter of sitting in silence and intermittent rain—thanks a bunch for that.
  • I hate Centro bus company and it’s paratransit subsidiary, Call-a-Bus, for so many reasons, most current being that they are forcing me to use a seatbelt in a way that never was intended and that is dangerous in the event of an accident.
  • I hate the Call-a-Bus driver who rearranged my clothing and pushed my leg aside so he could tie down my wheelchair.  I am not a carton of canned goods!  I am a human being and you damn well better not lay a hand on me without my permission!
  • I hate the computer tech guy who sat in my living room, called Microsoft customer service in India, and then said that he while on he’s on the phone he calls them “towel heads” because they are so stupid they don’t understand sarcasm.  That is not sarcasm; that is an ethnic slur, and my home is a bigot-free zone:  you are no longer welcome.
  • I hate Microsoft, which has outsourced its customer service to a country on the other side of the planet.  Microsoft:  It’s customer service and if the customer and the service aren’t speaking the same language in the same culture then you are not serving the customer.
  • I hate whoever is responsible for my laptop computer, which said something about “installing  . . . 35% done . . . do not turn off.”  It said that for one hour and 42 minutes before I turned it off.  Now what am I supposed to do?
  • I hate people who post pictures of their breakfast on Facebook.  Get a life!
  • I hate people who post on Facebook:  “THAT IS SO – – – – – HAHAHA – – – – – – – REALLY/WOW/LMAO!!!!!!!!!!”  Get a grip!

Mostly, I hate man’s inhumanity to animals, and woman’s inhumanity to woman.  I hate people who don’t treat other people with respect.  I hate that we no longer make a distinction between human beings and machines, and we create machines that don’t work and we don’t know how to fix.

I hate people who don’t have enough discipline to keep their rancid emotions to themselves.  I hate the Internet being used by people to spew their nastiness to complete strangers.

I have a proposal.  Declare one day a week Computer-Free Day.  The time you would have spent on the computer, instead go and spend in any public place where you will come into direct contact with strangers.  See what you have to do and how you behave in order to have a nice experience.

Then go home and when you get on email, Facebook and blogs, treat people the same way you do when you meet live and in person.  Let’s dial down the anonymous hatred and practice being kind and respectful to one another.

About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
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