For 18 glorious years, the Mercury has proudly (?) published your most secret anonymous rants and confessions in our I, Anonymous column and blog. And more often than not? Things get really weird. That’s why we’ve collected some of the best, strangest, and most shocking I, Anonymous submissions ever printed for your masochistic pleasure. Enjoy!
(Psst! And here’s something else you’ll enjoy: The monthly I, Anonymous Show, in which Portland’s reigning funniest person Caitlin Weierhauser and a panel of hilarious comedians read these anonymous submissions aloud, then dissect them for your rib-tickling pleasure! Our next show is this coming Wednesday, June 13 at Curious Comedy Theater, so get your tickets now at merctickets.com! Hate laughing in crowds? Then download the I, Anonymous Podcast, which is the audio version of this very popular show, now available on iTunes, Spotify, and anywhere you find your fave podcasts. Want to read more I, Anonymous? You’ll find thousands of them at portlandmercury.com.)
Confessions of a Peeper
It was the night I moved into my new studio apartment. It was a pretty sweet setup—with floor-to-ceiling windows facing another building with floor-to-ceiling windows. As I unpacked, I looked out and spied an attractive heterosexual couple, naked, engaging in sexy activities. What’s this? Did I win the sex peeper lottery? I wasn’t getting internet installed for another week, so I figured, why not? I poured myself a glass of wine and sat by the window, like a creeper, watching. And they obviously wanted me to, right? Their shades were WIDE open. Anyway, I took a break to smoke a bowl during the BJ—because, boring—and also because the guy did that awful king-of-the-castle, hands-behind-his-head move. They continued their sexcapades occasionally. Once, they even had what looked like a light BDSM session, with a short kitty whip and blindfolds (she was whipping him, which I appreciated). But after a while, their sexcapades became less frequent. I was genuinely worried! Was their relationship okay? A few months later, they moved out. And now some boring guy who collects bonsai plants lives there. Let me tell you right now: NOT AS INTERESTING.—Anonymous
We both work as servers in a restaurant. I have a thing for you, but you don’t even notice me. In fact, when we do work together, you’re mean and bossy (which I also kinda dig). Lately we’ve been working different shifts, and I miss that, but I’ve found a way to reconnect: You leave your silky socks in your locker, which I wear in your absence. Previously I would just sniff and occasionally fuck them in the bathroom—but now I full on wear them. You wash them several times a week, so I’m careful to not fuck them up. If we aren’t going to work together much anymore, at least I’ve got something to keep me on my toes.—Anonymous
Queen of the Bees
I’m an asshole—so be it. Do you people know what it took to get to where I am today? A lot of fucking ass-kissing, that’s what. I’m the boss now and apparently people don’t like it. Do I care? Not really. Listen up folks: I put in my time, I did what I had to do, I FUCKING compromised myself in more ways than one to rise to the top. So if you think I’m going to give two shits about how you people feel about me, you’re fucking wrong. And yeah, okay, sometimes I’m in a piss-poor mood because of the SHIT I’ve had to go through, and I’ll take it out on your sorry ass. But you know what? There isn’t a goddamn thing you can do about it. You are the worker bee and I am the fucking queen. Get it? If you want to get anywhere in life, you need to start kissing up, and you can begin with MY ass. (And if you’re wondering what place of work I’m writing about, try ANY WORKPLACE.)—Anonymous
Full disclosure: I lied about why I broke up with you. Want the real truth? Okay, here it is: You are in love with your fucking dog. You treat him like a spoiled child, and competing for your attention was something I couldn’t continue. I acted like I was cool with it, but I wasn’t. When he would jump and get his muddy, shitty paws all over me, you’d just laugh and say, “He likes you!” Worse still, you’d let him sleep in our bed, in between us all night—and let me tell you, nothing kills a boner like a smelly dog. In short, he ruled your world—not me. He got undivided attention—not me. The last straw was when you made ME sit in the back seat of your car while your dog rode shotgun. That’s when I decided to break up with you. I’ll never forget the expression of that old lady on the street as we drove by with your shaggy dog’s silhouette riding in the passenger seat, and my sorry ass in the back... I could tell that she knew my pain.—Anonymous
A Crime Against Humanity
When you are born, you learn to cry to get attention. Then you learn to crawl so you can walk, become mobile, and eventually get a job. But the most important thing you can ever learn? NEVER FUCKING MICROWAVE FISH AT WORK!! What the hell is wrong with you??!?!?!—Anonymous
Kick ME Off Nextdoor?
Ohhhh, I get it! You got me kicked off Nextdoor because you didn’t like my “tone.” Think that’s the last you’ll see of me? Guess again, butthole! I’m back, and I’m going to expose you to everyone on Nextdoor as the racist, rich fucker you truly are. I’ve read your smug comments about how you’re glad I’m gone and how you’ve taken measures to keep me away—but you don’t even KNOW who you’ve been fucking with. Cat-eating coyotes and “brown” people collecting cans at midnight are the least of your troubles now. I’m back on Nextdoor, shitface! AND VENGEANCE WILL BE MINE!—Anonymous
The Rules of Life
Rule 1: Always use your turn signal. Rule 2: DON’T EVER USE MY FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH! Why? Because it’s MY fucking toothbrush! Just because I brush my teeth in the shower, it doesn’t give you the right to use it without asking. Do you think it’s fine just because we kiss? IT IS NOT THE FUCKING SAME! Sure, when we’re kissing we’re balls deep in each other’s DNA. However, we’re not licking each other’s teeth. Using someone else’s toothbrush is exactly the same as chewing used dental floss. And that’s really fucking gross to me! Rule 3: Don’t text during movies. —Anonymous
I Don’t Want to Hear About Your Period. Period.
We aren’t “girlfriends”—we are coworkers. While I appreciate your work ethic, I’m confused why you think it’s okay to discuss your period with me. A simple allusion to your time of the month is fine, but it’s gross when you say things like, “I am leaking EVERYWHERE today!” or “Once this day passes, it’ll just be brown spotting.” Someone saying “Good morning!” is not an invitation for you to yell, “Well, not when you’ve had to change your pad three times in an hour!” Just because we have a uterus and a vagina doesn’t mean we’re friends. We all have anuses—but do you hear me talk about explosive diarrhea? No, you do not! Because that’s grossly inappropriate and unsolicited information!—Anonymous
Dear Gassy Boyfriend
Fart whenever you have to, damn it! Fart when you wake up. Rip ’em on the way to work. Fart when you pass Carl the IT guy’s cubicle. I don’t fucking care when you fart, as long as it’s not when you’re asleep in bed with me. You have all day to fart, and yet you hold them in until we’re in bed, ripping a fart so catastrophic, you made the dog get up and leave! So yes! This is why I fart when I’m in the shower with you! This is the reason!—Anonymous
WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING ON THE ESCALATOR?!!!
What is everyone doing, just standing motionless on the escalators? Are you following some esoteric social rule? Is there a damn LAW!? What do you see in your moment of Zen that I’m missing? WHAT IS THERE TO SEE?! It may be a moving stairway, but it’s still just a stairway—you can walk on it. It does not make any sense!! So move your ass or get out of the way, zombies! I need to get to Jamba Juice!—Anonymous
You: asking me to remove my hat at the movies, so you could see better.
Me: “I’d rather not.”
You: (loud sounds of displeasure.)
Me: removing my hat to give you a full view of the 15 stitches on the back of my head, post surgery.
You: losing your appetite for popcorn.—Anonymous
Dear neighbors a few houses down: From my back porch I can see both of you, putting peanuts on the road around rush hour. The squirrels get run over, you shovel them into a bucket, and then disappear. What the hell are you doing with all those dead squirrels? Taxidermy? Making potpies? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it. I hate squirrels. Just curious, that’s all!—Anonymous
I (May Have) Impregnated My Sister
My sister, whom I live with, just told me she may be pregnant. We’ve been roommates for over a year, and she’s not dating anyone. So here’s what I’m afraid of: Sometimes, after pleasuring myself, I sit on the toilet to take a dump before showering. My fear is that I might’ve left some spooge drops on the toilet and... fuck, I don’t know... maybe she could have gotten pregnant from it? I know she hasn’t dated anyone in a few months, so what else could it be? Do I tell her? How could I? If I tell her now, it will be the most fucking disgusting conversation we’ve ever had! But if I wait too long, and my suspicion proves true, then it’ll be even worse! Yes, I know: This is some fucked up shit. But tell me, WHAT DO I DO? —Anonymous
Sorry for the Shitty Date
I left you at the movies in the middle of our very first date and I thought you should know why: I shit my pants.
I don’t know what I ate that wrecked my digestive system, but I wasn’t going to let it keep me from spending time with you. I was convinced it was just gas, and held it in as long as I could. When you got up to use the restroom, I wasted no time venting the pressure cooker inside my bowels. That’s when I realized, to my horror, that what I mistook for simple gas was instead a foul jet of the blackest fecal matter. It smelled like hot roadkill and sulfur, and was sticking to the inside of my pants.
I panicked. Grabbing my sweater I tied it around my waist, and walked briskly toward the exit, just as you were coming back in. I mumbled something about having to use the restroom, knowing full well I was lying to you.
By the time I made it back to my place you had texted 10 times; initially with cute faux concern, followed by sincere worry, and finally disappointment. I had no idea how to respond, so I did what I do best: absolutely nothing. Is it too late to say sorry?—Anonymous
Luggage Handler Justice
I am a disgruntled baggage handler for a major international airline, and I will punish you for selfishness and lack of respect. If you are rude or belligerent to the gate agent, my informants will eagerly tell me your name. After I get my callused, blue-collar hands on your luggage, I will enthusiastically jump up and down on it with my size 12, steel-toed boots, attempting to break everything inside. My final act of petty vengeance will be to tear the handle off your suitcase—a trophy that’s taken home and hung on my “Wall of Shame” above my widescreen television. So far I have 32 handles, which I believe is a record in this industry. After so many years on the job, I have nothing but contempt for passengers. So be nice at the airport! And pray I never get your luggage.—Anonymous
Paying It Forward & Backward
This is for the young woman behind me in line at the grocery store. You did not know me. You did not know I was suffering from a migraine that almost put me in the hospital. You did not know my husband was let go from a 16-year job, which leaves us short on money sometimes. What you did know was that my debit card wasn’t accepted. And when I told the cashier that I’d run home to get the money, you said you’d pay for them. When I thanked you, you said someone had done the same for you. I wanted to give you a hug and tell you how grateful I was. I have tears in my eyes right now thinking of your generosity. What you did could be considered a small gesture—my grocery bill was a little over $20—but it will reverberate in my life for a very long time. Thank you.—Anonymous
The Forbidden Fruit
This is for my amazing girlfriend: Honey, I’ve been lying to you. Remember last week when you walked into the kitchen and asked what I was cooking? I’m sure you noticed my shame and embarrassment. Anyway, I lied. I told you I was microwaving tacos, but I wasn’t. I was microwaving a grapefruit.
I know it’s sick. See, the first time I screwed a grapefruit it was sort of a joke with my friends. We did it together—to practice for when we finally got girlfriends. I peel them, warm them up in the microwave, and then treat it like my personal porn star. I’m sorry I lied, but how could I rationally explain the truth? This also explains the problem we’ve been having in bed—but at least you know it’s not an STD. If you’re reading this, please forgive me and never bring it up. For what it’s worth, you mean more to me than any fruit.—Anonymous
You guys remember when the St. Helens jail was selling Crocs in the commissary? Most of them were bright orange, and a few were black—but it was weird to see all those tough guys walking around wearing crocs and stripes. It looked ridiculous, especially when these same Croc-wearers would make alpha moves on each other—cheating at cards, trading cigarettes for mini pizzas, and most of all, trying to control the TV. Unwritten rule: No one changes the channel whenEllen’s on. You could get stuck for that—Crocs or not. Prison facts!—Anonymous
Fuck You, Wizard Hater
Fuck you. Yeah, you: the asshole who took time out of your miserable day to tell me how much you hate my wizard murals. You probably don’t have a single drop of artistic sense in your hatemongering soul. Want to get rid of all the world’s wizard murals? Here’s an idea: You can stick every one of them up your ass.—Anonymous
Here’s a Tip
When I use the bathroom at your house, I snoop around in medicine cabinets and under the sink until I find what I’m looking for. I’m not looking for medication, or weird infection creams. I don’t want to take anything. I just want to feel the light scrape of a cotton-covered stick against my inner ear. I love Q-tips. I use them compulsively and have damaged my ears at least twice. After using yours I bury them in the garbage so no one will know. If there’s no garbage can in your bathroom, I’ll put them in a pocket until I leave your house. Like a recovering alcoholic, I can’t keep them in my home—but at your place I go into relapse mode. Thank you for keeping your Q-tip supply stocked. I really need that 30 seconds of bliss.—Anonymous
Dear pizza-delivery man: I’m sorry you caught me masturbating on my couch. Normally I don’t pleasure myself in the living room, but I was relishing a night alone. Agreed, it was a horribly awkward situation, but to be fair, you did arrive before the estimated delivery time. Since when do pizzas arrive early? At least it made your night more exciting. However, I do wonder one thing: It was my dog who first noticed you standing there, so why didn’t you knock or ring the doorbell?—Anonymous
Purse ’n’ Boots
My tiny dog is named Purse ’n’ Boots, and he goes everywhere with me. (I often put him in my purse, which is how he got the name.) Everyone loves him—except, apparently, you. Purse ’n’ Boots was snuggled in my purse as we waited in line for ice cream. It was a hot day and people were grumpy, I guess, but I could immediately tell you were trouble. When Purse started to bark, I whispered, “Shush, my babe-ums,” and watched you roll your eyes and sigh. “Why don’t you let your dog out of that hot purse?” you demanded. I ignored you, but the harassment didn’t stop. Then you had the gall to say, “It’s cruel to put a dog in a purse.” I could stand no more. I mustered up my courage and yelled at you, challenging your privilege, and calling you out for invading our safe space.
You stepped back, shocked by my bravery, and didn’t say another word. In fact, the entire line fell silent as I stepped up to the counter and proudly ordered a scoop of vegan chocolate for me, and a scoop of vanilla for Purse. No one... and I mean no one... fucks with Purse.—Anonymous
I want to fuck my boss. In fact, my vibrator is called “Boss Naked.” Of course he’s married, and so am I, which is why it’s never going to happen. But when I’m going to sleep at night, I think of him slowly touching me. In his office, I imagine him bending me over his desk and taking me from behind, hard and fast. There’s no one I can tell, no one I can ask for help. I like my job and don’t want to get a different one, but it’s really hard to endure this torture. How do I stop thinking of my boss naked? I’m not sure how much longer “Boss Naked” will satisfy me.—Anonymous
Go Get ’em, Gay Tiger
To the dad and son at a local coffee shop: I apologize for eavesdropping, but I was very interested in your conversation. You, overeager father, were sharing encouraging words with your teenage son, slapping him on the back, and giving that classic dad pep talk: “Go on... just walk over and say hi. You can do this! You have to put yourself out there, son. Now go! This is your chance!” I watched as the young man slowly got up, walked over to the sexy bearded cashier, and started flirting. I was awestruck. I looked back to see the dad beaming and his son doing his best to stay cool. I love living in this bubble of a city where you can witness a dad talking his son into hitting on another guy. Hats off to you, dad, and way to put yourself out there, young guy. THIS is how things should be.—Anonymous