THE MERCURY'S EXTREMELY POPULAR I, ANONYMOUS BLOG turned three years old in 2014, and I'll admit it—there are times when I want to put it in a bag full of rocks and throw it off a bridge. The several rants and confessions posted completely anonymously every day on this blog are clearly written by the worst people on the planet... and yet? As mentally ill as these sad, angry screamers are, they need someplace to vent their many frustrations and issue their plaintive cries for help (which are usually mercilessly mocked by evil commenters). Otherwise, they'll probably just turn their sadness and fury on YOU. That's why the I, Anonymous Blog is actually a critical public service—and a great place to put your own problems in perspective.
For example, take a peek at some of the most hilarious, creepy, furious, lustful, sad, and downright mean I, Anonymous submissions from 2014. You'll probably mourn the world's lack of humanity... and then rush over to the I, Anonymous Blog (at portlandmercury.com) to post your own anonymous rant or confession. So let's put on our hazmat suits, and dive right in.
The Rules of Life
1. Always use your turn signal. This rule is simply just to protect the bodies of the innocent. Makes complete fucking sense, right? 2. DON'T EVER USE MY FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH! Why? Because it's MY fucking toothbrush, and it's not your fucking toothbrush. Just because I brush my teeth in the shower doesn't give you the right to use it without asking. It doesn't give you the right to exit the bathroom with "Baby, I used your toothbrush" spewing from your lips, as if it were going to be fine because we romantically kissed. IT'S NOT THE FUCKING SAME! I get it—with kissing we are absolutely balls deep in each other's DNA. However, we're not licking each other's teeth when we kiss. Using someone's toothbrush is exactly the same as chewing on someone's used dental floss when they're done. And that's really fucking gross to me!—Anonymous
The First Rule of Fight Club
I yelled at some delivery guy because he asked me to move my car. I was parked in a loading zone, but I didn't care; I yelled right back at him. We both got out of our vehicles and approached one another. He pointed to the sign, which clearly stated it was a loading zone... and I pointed to nothing. I had not a leg to stand on, but that didn't deter me from demeaning the guy. I'm sure he was too busy for my shit. I told him to "go back to fucking work loading those boxes," as he walked away and I moved my car. I feel like shit now. I've just been stressed out lately and really depressed, and in my mind, I kind of wanted him to kick my ass... I wouldn't have fought that hard. I need something different in my mundane day-to-day. I want to feel alive again. I feel so numb these days. A beatdown would have at least been something... I would have felt something. I was a complete and utter asshole, but for reasons that driver and passerby will never know.—Anonymous
No Prince Charming
We had been dating for three months. You spent one to two nights a week in my bed, lingering after I go to work. We hadn't labeled things yet, but we were building something, so I planned a wonderful dinner for your birthday. I bought fancy steaks, got flowers for the table, chocolate for after dinner, and a great bottle of wine. I bought a super hot bra and panties to share with you that night, and wore stockings and a garter. You showed up empty-handed with a chip on your shoulder, ate dinner, drank my wine, and took me to bed, where you made it all about you. Then, after you finished, you got up and told me you'd be back in 15 minutes—you were going to get a shot across the street. Three hours later I found you passed-out drunk on my steps. So I threw your shit at you, tried to wake you up, and called the cops. Watching you get arrested was the most satisfying thing I've ever experienced. I truly hope you get your shit together, but I'm not going to be the one you shit on while you get there.—Anonymous
It was I who took your money, but I think you already know that. I saw you drop your shit as I was skating by, so I stopped to help. To my surprise, there's a fat $20 on the ground with all your other stuff. As I helped you pick it up, I palmed the $20 and kept it for myself, old school. Skating away, I could've sworn I heard you yell at me, but I couldn't be sure and didn't dare look back. Once I drank down your 20, the thought of you knowing it was me made me laugh my ass off. For some reason, the idea of me, a grown man, stealing some kid's lunch money was the funniest thing ever. Oh, I know you'll never read this, and I also know that some spoiled kid with a $20 bill in his backpack will likely get repaid, but I just had to put it out there in the universe for me to bask in the reflected glory. Those beers were just a tad bit more flavorful, knowing who paid for them. Thanks, kid.—Anonymous
I'm a dancer at one of the top-rated and reviewed strip clubs in the city. I work incredibly hard to look good and entertain the crowd, and I'm sick as shit of people coming in and sitting at the tables for hours, blatantly watching us attempt to entertain them and never tipping us. I'm not doing this for my health. In fact, I've had bursitis in my knee, rotator cuff syndrome, a concussion, and chronic back pain. My coworkers have broken ribs, gotten staph infections, laid down in broken glass, and been sexually assaulted, drugged, stalked, and harassed too many times to track. And I get it. We chose this work, and it's our job to be here, putting on a smile, and entertaining our audience. But there is no cover charge and the drinks are strong and dirt cheap, because the idea is you should be spending all that money you saved on covers and overpriced booze ON US. We are charged money by the club and staff for our shifts. So when people sit there and watch me do a full eight-minute stage set, complete with advanced, gravity-defying pole tricks, and never bother to tip, what they're saying is: "Your skill, strength, and talent are worth me leaving my house, driving out to a club, paying for drinks, and giving you my full attention for two songs, but they aren't worth A SINGLE FUCKING DOLLAR."—Anonymous
To Stalk and Creep
My friend says I'm a stalker, but I disagree. I was telling him a story of how I followed this waitress home from work to ask her out, and that's when he accused me. I told him I thought there was nothing wrong with what I did, and, in fact, I had done it many times. I don't know what's wrong with it, especially if it works, which it has on more than one occasion. I told him that the thing is, if a girl is receptive she'll think it's sweet... sort of a Say Anything romantic gesture. If she isn't receptive, then yeah, she'll think it's weird. I've had both reactions when following women home. It's hit and miss for sure, but stalking? I don't think so. I've waited outside bars, places of work, restaurants, stores, etc., for women to exit, watched them get into their cars, and then followed them to their door, and I don't see how that is "stalking." I don't even know them, so how could it be? My friend tried to convince me that if nothing else, it's creepy, but I still disagree. If you find something that works 25 percent of the time, why stop?—Anonymous
Let's simplify this for any Dr. Dolittles in the audience who wish to share their animal's dander, saliva, scales, and intestinal worms with the larger public: If you do not have a dog, you do not have a service animal. If you have a dog, it is probably not a service animal. Service animals are dogs that have been specially trained by a certified trainer (not you) to assist profoundly disabled humans. If you are not really disabled and claim your beast as a service animal so it may prowl, prance, and slither through the aisles of Fred Meyer, you are actually doing a disservice to the humans who are actually sight disabled or otherwise dependent on their animal. They struggle enough from everyday thoughtlessness without also having to differentiate their real disability from your fake lame status. Stop being an ingrown pube and leave your animal at home (where it would rather be than getting sawdust up its nose at Home Depot). Why do you need your brown ferret empathy assistant to help you buy yogurt at WinCo?—Anonymous
Having the need to look less like Harry from Harry and the Hendersons in my southern region, I made the appointment—my first-ever appointment for a Brazilian wax. My girl does it all the time, and swears by it. "It doesn't hurt," she says. "The lady who gives them is so gentle," she says. Dear not-fucking-gentle-at-all lady, stop telling me to fucking relax. You just placed heated wax on my squeezebox and yanked so hard that you stumbled away from me. I get it, my promised land has a little moss growing, but you used more strength than needed to start a fucking lawn mower. My private eye can only handle so much pain before I eventually scream out. And I know we're right in the next room and other ladies can hear us. But if I'm okay with them laughing at my pain, then they can handle a fucking curse word. We were right to abort mission when we did. Three strips in, four fucks given, and I look like a child with alopecia. Go gently fuck yourself!!—Anonymous
Thanks for the Road Snack
To whoever lost a ripe honeydew melon on Macadam across from Zupan's—I was riding my bike to work Tuesday morning, thinking about how I'd forgotten to bring my lunch, when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a pale orb laying in the street. I had a hunch it was something special... and what a special thing it was. A melon! A whole ripe honeydew melon, virtually unscathed after being dropped out of someone's shopping bag. I just want whoever lost their melon to know that it found a good home in my stomach. Finding that gutter melon delighted me far more than anything else in recent memory, so thank you, melon-loser. You made my week.—Anonymous
I hate Airbnb. It just displaces renters and takes jobs away from hotel workers. I also hate the way the lobbyists for this $10 billion company get to rewrite our housing laws. I am sorry if you can't make ends meet—but dragging down the city with the Airbnb bullshit is not the answer. So I just went to the site and identified two illegal rentals in the Pearl District. I then called the property managers of the apartments and directed them to the ads. The property managers were "not amused." Just so you know, there will be two apartment vacancies in the Pearl real soon. Just use them as the residences they're intended to be, and not as motels, and I'm sure you will be just fine.—Anonymous
I had a stalker for years. The kind that breaks into your house and shows up at your job so often you get fired. Threatening calls, disturbing letters, and an attempt to kill me with a butcher knife. I moved over 1,000 miles to get away from him, and hopefully into a city where the police would take it seriously. He found me. I want to thank the Portland police for treating me with respect, and the court system that granted my restraining orders every January. I want to thank the neighbors who called 911 when he threw a brick through my daughter's window, and the landlord who put in the motion-sensor lights, and my old employers who made sure security had his picture and aliases. I want to thank Child Protective Services for never buying his BS calls, and my doctors for the same. Thanks to the detectives who worked so hard. And finally, to the city that never once asked me what I had done to "deserve" this. It's been three years since he overdosed on heroin. Somewhere between then and now, I stopped looking over my shoulder, and I don't jump when there's a knock at the door. I don't keep mace by the door, and I don't sleep with a knife under my pillow. It's overdue, but I want you all to know: It's appreciated.—Anonymous
My girlfriend and I enjoy freaky sex. We enjoy that freaky sex on our own terms. We decide what, when, and where, and if we ever decide we want to include someone else, we will decide that also. When we walked into a sex shop to get freaky in a booth, that is exactly what we intended to do. So, Mr. Douchebag who thinks he's a pimp, you're a real piece of crap. As soon as you saw my girl in those tight shorts and see-through shirt, you started texting and following us with your camera phone. As we were getting it on, several people tried to get in the door. I was hoping it was a fluke, but after the dirty deed was done and I opened the door, I FOUND YOU LEANING NEXT TO THE DOOR WITH ABOUT SEVEN MEN BEHIND YOU WITH EYES BULGING, WAITING THEIR TURN. That's my girlfriend, ASSHOLE! Not a whore for you to sell tickets to fuck! Next time we come in, I'm going to let you in the booth, and you better be ready for some action, because I'm gonna get her a huge strap-on dildo and a bottle of lube mixed with sand.—Anonymous
I began to study combat after my now ex-boyfriend didn't even attempt to defend me during a conflict, which was the impetus for my realization that men are not inherently strong or brave—a naïve belief I take responsibility for. I continued my study, inspired by a stalker who harasses me in the name of "romance." He has not demonstrated "enough of a threat" to successfully engage legal sanctions, despite having grabbed me several times and haunting me for years with creepy letters and internet stalking. Additionally, I recently discovered a man hiding in the bushes directly outside my window, watching me in my home, where I live alone. This is where you pass judgment: I'm probably crazy or slutty or dramatic or deserving in some other way that women ask to be harassed. But the truth is that we live in a fucked-up culture where men get away with these things. I am done asking the system for help, because it has failed me repeatedly. If trouble finds me, I will meet it with intelligence and physical defense. I will not tolerate this nonsense another day. I am prepared for the next piece of shit.—Anonymous
Share the Sidewalk, A-Hole
Picture it, Portland 2014: I'm walking down the sidewalk on a slightly rainy day, when I happen to make eye contact with an ardent lunchtime power walker, umbrella in hand, headphones in ears, business casual getup—the whole nine. Being a polite human, I move to the side, however... 'twas not enough, as the person approaching viewed the sidewalk as entirely theirs, so that upon our meeting this individual HAD to stop. This lunchtime exerciser decided not to share the sidewalk, and then asked, "Really?" To which I said, "Yes, you stupid fucking piece of entitled shit, fucking really. I'm sorry you have the personality of fetid vaginal discharge, but fuckin' hell! Share the fucking sidewalk, you stupid asshat. Yes, 'fucking really.'"—Anonymous
Today I learned to hate those less fortunate than I. So I'm waiting for the #75 bus at the Hollywood Transit Center, trying to keep dry in the shelter when you come rolling up. You, with your giant, motorized dick chariot, trying to fit it in where it clearly doesn't belong. There are already four people jammed up in that vestibule/covered bus stop thing; there's no room. But before I can even move out of the way, you bust a 180 and back into me, shoving me up against the plexiglass. Rather than making a scene or drawing attention to your dumb ass, I try to dislodge my foot and extract myself from the situation. No dice, I'm stuck. Before I can even say: "Hey, you parked on my foot," you are smoking a cigarette and blowing it in my face. Dick move for sure—but hey, you're in a wheelchair, and not because you are just too fat. Then you run over my foot again. So I dig out a pair of wire-cutters and pretend to tie my shoes—but really I was cutting a very important-looking wire near the motor on your aforementioned powered cock taxi. Long story short: I got on the bus and you didn't. Fuck you, douchebag. You should feel happy that I treat you as you deserve to be treated.—Anonymous
Beauty and the Belch
When I saw your online dating profile, I sorta guessed (hoped) you were kidding when you stated that you "like to burp loudly and often." We met at a North Portland bar, and right away, I thought you were way more attractive than your photos. The conversation flowed, then after a few drinks, all hell broke loose. As you were describing a recent trip, out comes the loudest belch I've ever heard from a woman. I saw some heads turn to look, and I was so taken aback that I couldn't respond. A few minutes later yet another, this time with your mouth wide open. I could tell you were pushing it all out by the way your abdomen sunk in. No acknowledgement from you. I eventually made up some excuse about having to work early, and as we made our way to your car, the last belch of the night left my ears ringing and my stomach turning as the light smell of garlic and beer permeated the air. I jokingly said that you were gross, and you just laughed. What on earth is wrong with you? When we kissed, I could taste the garlic and beer combo, which I found kind of hot for some reason.—Anonymous
Modern-Day Banking for Morons
I understand you. Life can be so hard nowadays. But the way some of you act—and I mean YOU, iPod Generationers—leaves me no hope for the future. Take banking, for instance. When did calling up your bank/credit union and being a total asshole to the person who's trying to help become a fashionable norm? Did I overdraw your bank account at the 24-hour Taco Bell drive-through last night? Nope. How do you call a financial institution up and not know your bank account number? Common psychology accepts that our brains retain up to seven-digit numbers with ease. Has EDM and reality TV augmented your brain to suboptimal functionality? Furthermore, how do you not know your Social Security number or other basic ID questions? AND how do you not know these, and then get mad when we can't give you any account information due to a lack of positive identification? I cringe when I verify your birth date and it's after 1990, because chances are you're going to say something so mind-numbingly ignorant that I will almost pass out due to second-hand stupid. Oh, and it's a checkING account, as in singular, not "checkings." Is this stuff not being taught in schools anymore? How is it that I see more idiot twentysomethings with firebombed credit ratings now than ever before? A sub-500 rating at this stage of your life is like a fucking noose. Put down the glass pipe, turn down the Skrillex, and grow a fucking brain. Signed, your financial service representatives the whole world over.—Anonymous
On the Prowl
I want to fuck your girl. Wife or girlfriend, it doesn't matter, I want to fuck them. I work in the service industry, and I engage with a lot of people throughout the night. For the most part, I'm on the prowl... on the prowl for your girl. It's a challenge, see, and the art of seduction/flirting is my specialty. If I'm nice to you, it's simply because I want to see how your girl reacts to me. If I strike up a conversation, it's not to "get to know you," but rather to feel out the look your girl is giving me. Many women are unhappy and starved for the attention I'm more than willing to give. Have I had affairs? Yes, two to be exact. Makeout sessions? Definitely. Too many to count. It's a challenge, but by the same token, it's kind of easy. I'm not here to advise you to "work less," or "spend more time with your woman," or "pay more attention to her." I'm here to say there are guys like me out there who are more than happy to take advantage of your situation.—Anonymous
For those not in the know, OkCupid matches people based on the questions they answer. So, if you've answered a lot of the same questions the same way, you are rated a high match. Enter my 93 percent match: a woman who was not only a high match, but with whom I connected and/or related to. Her likes, her dislikes, all of it was like an awakening; I had never come across such a profile. I wrote her a funny and sincere message, relating to a certain thing she had written about and I waited. And waited. AND WAITED. I waited two long days for her to respond... and then I saw her visit my page. (OkCupid lets you know when someone visited.) I thought to myself, "Okay, this is it!" and then... silence. NOTHING. I went back to her profile and stared at her photos for a good 30 minutes wondering why. Why did she not respond? Everything on paper was a perfect fit! I wrote her again, apologizing if I wasn't funny enough, and asked her a specific question. An hour or so later, I see that she's read my message and my heart races again... and again... nothing but silence. One last time, I stare at her photos, trying to get the universe to step in here... sending good vibes and whatnot. The next day I see that she's visited my profile, so I click on hers only to find it gone. She blocked me. In a last-ditch effort, I created a fake profile and wrote her another message pleading with her to respond and now I wait... AGAIN. Online dating is fucking weird!—Anonymous
I Love Angelina Jolie
I am so fascinated with Angelina Jolie that I find myself searching the internet for anything about her. It's a girl crush I know—but isn't she just so mature these days and more gorgeous then ever? What a life she must live. Brad Pitt, the kids, her clothes, and her rebel personality, which says to the world, "Angie is here to stay!" Some think I'm being too soft about her past, but I say, "Angie even has a jet pilot's license." Angie, please come to Portland, Oregon. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE.—Anonymous
In the 17 years I've been hitting Sauvie Island and going to the naked beach, I've really never had a bad experience. Puppies and kids frolicking about, bouncing body parts, swimming, fun, and all naked. Naked doesn't equal sex, and the people at this beach are aware of that. Imagine my disgust, and those of my beach neighbors, at having to watch you fuck. Imagine my disgust at watching you jack off your boyfriend's flaccid penis. It's not about sex at the naked beach; get a clue. No one is into that, except maybe the few perverts who think they have a chance of getting laid after seeing your display. Thanks for ruining 15 minutes of my day.—Anonymous
I'm a Dick and I Hope You're Alive
When I saw you lying there on the side of the road, I froze. You'd obviously been hit by a car on your bike, and you were lying still, but I could see you breathing. At least I think I saw you breathing. I didn't know what to do, so I rode right on past, pretending I didn't see you. I rode about 50 feet, and for a moment thought of turning back and maybe finding the courage to help you—but I didn't. I've taken first aid and CPR at work; they require it, but I never really felt comfortable with my "certification." I hope someone stopped to help you... I really do. I've been thinking about you quite a bit, and I feel like a coward for leaving you lying there—but I can't really say that if I saw you again I wouldn't just keep on riding. I guess I'm a coward and a dick, but I hope you're alive; I really do.—Anonymous
A Love Story
I'm not at all oblivious as to what a great catch you are, despite my being somewhat of an average pothead dude. We've had two awesome dates already, and date three is at my place. You've cooked an amazing dinner for us, but heavy cream can make me gassy after a while. We hang around my apartment, listen to music, drink, touch, and then we realize you have to get to the MAX before the last train leaves. As we walk to the stop, the cream works its way through, and suddenly the urge to fart is there. Not just any urge: the most insane urge. I can't even focus on what you're saying. I notice my demeanor has changed. We arrive at the stop. You're facing me and smiling when a huge delivery truck pulls up to the Starbucks. That roaring engine would provide the perfect cover. I unclench my anus. The fart dives into open air, and as SOON as it clears my cheeks, the driver turns off the engine. There is dead silence for a brief moment, then... this precious, beautiful, amazing girl stares in my eyes as I unleash the longest, grimiest Wu-Tang fart of my life. The MAX couldn't have come sooner. Literally 20 seconds later you were gone, I thought for good—until a minute later I get a text: "I'm still laughing! What are we doing Sat?" Fuck yes!—Anonymous
So You Want to Hit on That Cute Asian!
A quick list of dos and don'ts.
1. Say how you always wanted to date/fuck an Asian girl. I'm not an item on your bucket list.
2. Tell me a story about how you dated a black girl once in middle school. Yeah, I understand how you are trying to subtly tell me you are "down with the brown"— but it's not working.
3. Ask me where I'm from, because I will say, "Arizona," and if you follow up by asking where my parents are from, again it's "Arizona."
4. Say, "Ni hao." Wrong move, weaboo!
5. Never ever ask, "What are you...." Do I really have to explain this one?!
1. Treat me with respect like any other person regardless of race. You don't have to call me "exotic," or some other bullshit word that points out our differences. "Cute" works just fine!—
Submit your rants and confessions (always anonymously) at the I, Anonymous Blog.