EDITOR'S NOTE: It's a scientific fact—people have opinions. And they have feelings! But they don't want other people to know they have opinions and feelings. And that's why the Mercury's I, Anonymous column and blog remain insanely popular year after year. For newbies, the I, Anonymous Blog is a place where anyone can drop off a confession or rant... anonymously! We get a poop-ton of them every week, and then we pick the best to run in the Portland Mercury. Does this perform a public service? Mmmm... well... ummm... maybe? At the very least, it allows people to blow off steam—which they may have blown all over your face if it hadn't been for the I, Anonymous Blog! So by all means enjoy (?) this year's selection of the very best of the worst of I, Anonymous. (And drop off your own rant or confession in the I, Anonymous Blog at portlandmercury.com.)

Oh! And may god have mercy on all your despicable souls.

My Child, the A-Hole

Dear Child of Mine—You are an asshole. I am your mother. When I shoved you out of the car at the welfare office (the first time you got pregnant), and sped off, I actually didn't go anywhere. I parked and watched you the entire time. For two fucking minutes you stood in the real world and were so scared. Upon my return you screamed, "How could you do that to your own kid?" I'll tell you how: I don't want you to be an asshole. You don't even understand that the welfare office is easy as fuck compared to the pains of childbirth, and keeping the child safe and warm. (Not to mention the other daily efforts parents put into their children so they don't turn into assholes.)

Do you understand that every fucking day you've existed on this earth, I've worried about every choice I've ever made as a parent? And if that choice would somehow fuck up your life? This shit is exhausting, and it's only been 19 years so far.

I am not perfect and, accordingly, make it a point not to judge others. I am currently not judging your boyfriend—even during your child's birth, when he had to abandon his job of holding your leg because his "arm was tired." I simply traded spots with him and did the job—because that's the way shit works. When your boyfriend eagerly tells your parents that his interests are "riding four-wheelers and catching a buzz," that means the guy is undeniably a fucking idiot.

Listen, kid: I love you, and I respect you... but you don't know shit. And that's okay—just stop being an asshole about it.—Anonymous

Worst Nightmare

I'm pretty sure you don't know this, but everyone who knows your boyfriend knows he is a pedophile. Your boyfriend spent three years in prison for possession and transfer of child porn involving five-year-olds, the details of which are more horrifying than anything you can imagine. Every time I see you out, I feel bad for you. There is a reason why his "friends" say their hellos without making eye contact, then move slowly to the opposite end of the room. People aren't avoiding him because of you, people are avoiding him because of him. Three years in prison does a lot to someone, most likely including a disease or three. I'm not sure of my ethical responsibility to tell you for your sake and protection, but if you have a bad feeling about someone, trust your instinct.—Anonymous

Shush Me? Shush You!

Hey you! Asshole in the theater who always loves to SHHHHHUUUSH me. KILL YOURSELF. I know, I know: This movie is probably the highlight of the week of your boring little life—but come on! It's a f**king PG-13 soap opera in a second-run theater. And, guess what? I PAID THE SAME AMOUNT AS YOU, which makes us equals. I'm sorry you need to hang on to every little word as if your life depends on it. But I DON'T. I go to movies to have a good time. And if my partner and I want to Mystery Science Theater the shit out of any movie we see, then WE WILL. And, your pathetic shhhush won't stop me. It's the equivalent of honking at me in traffic. Yes, you have a horn. No, I do not care. So next time, moviegoer, if you're thinking of shhhusshhing a stranger, ask yourself if it's worth it? 'Cause chances are it just might be me, and you might just end up with "PIPE THE FUCK DOWN" keyed into the side of your car!—Anonymous

  • Kalah Allen

Sexual Education

Dear friend, I want to fuck you. Pretty sure you want me to fuck you, too. Per our conversation, I can teach you a lot of things. Sure, we both have wives and love them dearly. Heck, maybe our wives could get in on it. Yes, it could get awkward, but I'm willing to take that risk. This isn't about love: It's about you wanting me to teach you. And it's about me needing to teach you. I already understand what you need in bed, and we have barely touched. When we casually dance together, I just want to put my hand ever so gently—or not so gently—on your neck to show you I can lead. I just need you to follow.—Anonymous

No, NOT an FYI

  • Kalah Allen

I know Segway tours have been a thing since Dean Kamen radically reshaped our fair city into a creative-class utopia with his sweeping vision of tomorrow. But godammit, I'm a pedestrian, and I refuse to bow to your elitist bullshit! I will not stand aside as a gaggle of able-bodied twenty- and thirtysomethings roll up behind me on the sidewalk. No, this is my right of way, and I'm not giving up an inch! The guide pipes up: "Hey pal, we've got a tour group coming up beside you, just an FYI...." No, motherfucker! Not an "FYI!" A barefaced encroachment on my pedo-zone! I will not stand down! Do you see these, Dylan? They're my IMAGINARY EARBUDS that make it totally impossible for me to become a cog in your tourism wheel!—Anonymous

The Observer

Dear Ex-Boyfriend—When you broke up with me and cut off all communication, I was destroyed. I did anything I could to feel close to you, which included hacking into your email and social media pages (with the passwords I sneakily obtained when we were together). I dried my tears poring over your messages, emails, and chat conversations, wishing I could still be involved in your life somehow. A lot of time has gone by. I have realized your shortcomings as a paramour. I have moved on and am now happily married. I still check up on your email and social media from time to time, but now for a different reason: schadenfreude. It is clear that you are still the same person (read: an unsuccessful try-hard) you were back then, and that comforts me in a way. Even though I was devastated when I lost you, I realize I have come a long way in the department of self-respect, and am much, much better off where I am now. So keep up the entertaining emails, messages, and chat conversations. I will be reading.—Anonymous

  • Kalah Allen

Fuel and Fire

Dear dude who left nasty notes under my windshield when my car ran out of gas: I apologize that I can't afford to get the gas gauge fixed. I thought I had enough to make it to the gas station, but I was off by a few blocks. I was gone all of 10 minutes to fill up my gas can. I left my hazards on and it seemed pretty obvious that my car was broken down and not just parked haphazardly. This was time enough for you to have a total fucking titty fit, call a tow truck, and leave notes under my windshield wipers. I was embarrassed enough. You didn't have to drive it home by telling me I'm "a shitty driver" and "P.S. Fuck you." One of the notes was on a receipt for $40 in dry cleaning. It must be nice to have extra money to throw around on getting your pants professionally cleaned. If my car had been towed, I would not have been able to afford to get it back. I would have lost the crappy job I have because it requires that I have a car. Please learn to have empathy.—Anonymous


  • Kalah Allen

You didn't want a kid, but your wife insisted on having one to be "complete"—even threatened to leave you unless you capitulated to her demands. Once she got pregnant that's all that mattered, and that's all she talked about. You may as well have been a ghost as far as she was concerned. She had the kid, a boy. Her Facebook feed became choked with pics of the "bundle of joy." Not one picture or mention of you. Fast-forward a few years and the kid has been diagnosed with autism. He breaks shit, screams all the time, abuses the animals, etc. You had to quit your job to take care of him, and your wife is never home anymore—out with her friends when not at work. She never mentions her kid in public, but she does talk shit about you. She filed for divorce last week, and doesn't want anything to do with her child. She's been seeing some dude behind your back, and says she's going to marry him and "start a new family." I'm sorry I introduced you to that woman. So very sorry.—Anonymous

Here's a Tip

When I use the bathroom at your house, I end up snooping under the sink, in medicine cabinets, and opening up containers until I find what I am looking for. I'm not looking for medications, or to see if you have any creams for weird infections. 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. My use of them is compulsive and I've damaged my ears at least twice. After I use them I try to bury them in the garbage so no one will know that I have performed a search for them without permission. If there is no garbage can in your bathroom, I will put them in a pocket until I leave your house. I don't mind generic ones, but it's even better when the name brand is found. Like a recovered alcoholic, I sometimes have to keep them out of my house, but at your place I go into relapse mode. I mean no harm when I snoop. I just want 30 seconds of bliss.—Anonymous

  • Kalah Allen

A Burglar's PSA

It's going to be hot this weekend—the weather report says it's going to be almost 100. It's the perfect time for me to rob you. You'll be going to the coast, or to the river, or to the pool. You'll leave your windows open, because you always do. I'll hang around down on the corner and wait for you to leave. Then I'll sneak around to the back of your house and slip through the window—probably the one in your child's room. I'll rifle through your stuff and take your iPad, laptop, and if I'm really lucky, your gun. I'm usually in and out within five minutes. I've already got a guy lined up to buy your stuff. So thank you in advance for leaving your windows open. You're keeping America working.—Anonymous

To the Men on OkCupid

Stop being a bunch of fucking creepers. Just because you see my profile and find me attractive does not mean: I find you attractive; that you can ask stupid questions ("whoa, wait. Why do you want to learn to play the banjo?"); stalk my profile (a view each and every hour is a bit much, don't you think?); send me the same fucking generic message on at least three occasions ("hey. I really liked your profile and pics. Let me know if you want to chat." Guess what? I wasn't interested the first two times you emailed and I'm still not. Also, you sent that exact same message to my roommate, twice).

Support The Portland Mercury

Stop emailing to say how you think we're a really great match (I looked at your profile. We are not even close to a good match and OkCupid agrees—12% match, 74% enemy); don't Facebook stalk me (I'm not sure how you figured out who I am, but you are now showing up in my "People you might know" feed. Stop).

Lastly, don't message me to ask if I can pick you up from the airport, drop you off at the airport, stay with me for a few days because you got evicted from your place, if I am interested in double penetration with you and your "bro" (that actually happened), or tell me how lonely and desperate you are while wondering why I won't email back or even look at your profile. Hmm. I wonder!

Learn some fucking manners, accept rejection, and try not to act so fucking desperate!—Anonymous

Dad Bads

  • Kalah Allen

My father will soon be visiting town. I wish to forewarn you of his arrival. If you attempt to approach him on the sidewalk selling Street Roots, canvasing for any political cause, or even if you are hurt and need help, he will raise an appendage and splay five digits in a "talk to the hand" motion. If you happen to be driving behind him, it is an accident waiting to happen—he once parked in the middle of the southbound I-5 Morrison Bridge exit ramp. Speaking of parking, he will take two spots with one vehicle, and any finger flipping you do will not be registered. If you work in a restaurant, he will scoff at you trying to explain the specials to him and tell you he was trained to cook in Europe, and if you tell him there will be a 10-minute wait, he will storm out of your restaurant complaining at a high volume. Also, any tip he leaves will be less than you expected. You may see me close by trying to mediate or drinking heavily, and though I am sorry you are dealing with this, I feel your pain too.—Anonymous

Special Delivery

Dear Pizza Man—I am sorry you caught me masturbating on my couch. I don't normally enjoy myself in the living room, but I was relishing a night alone. I'm sorry I put us both in that horribly awkward situation. I have never dreaded opening the door to someone more in my life. I tried to make it better by tipping you extra, but there are some situations in life you are never taught how to deal with. I promise I would have been more conscientious, but to be fair, you did arrive before the estimated delivery time. This was the first time in my life that a pizza arrived early. I promise I'm not always such a mess. I can only hope that perhaps it made your night more exciting. I am left wondering though, why you didn't knock or ring the doorbell. How long would I have gone had my dog not noticed you?—Anonymous

Art of the Pickup

  • Kalah Allen

To the rich gentleman who crept along next to me in his Mercedes convertible after midnight on a dimly lit side street: It was not rude of me to tell you that my name is none of your business. Yes, that's how I talk to rich and poor people alike, when they catcall and attempt to intimidate me while I'm alone. I did not want to share your giant can of weed, and was frightened when you told me that I was "so close to your house." What's rude is when men like you think that what you did is perfectly acceptable and even flattering behavior. It's belittling and aggressive and pretty much one of the least attractive things you can do. What did you expect? That someone a third of your size would be super pumped to get into a complete stranger's car to smoke whatever rape weed was in that can of yours? The next time you want the attention of a woman walking down the street, just shut the fuck up. It'll probably be the hottest thing you ever do.—Anonymous

Parents of the Year

You chose to bring your daughter, who is young enough to still be in pull-up pants, to the Morrissey show at Edgefield. Why you would choose to buy a child that young an $80 ticket instead of getting a babysitter, I'll never know. You started pissing me off when you kept putting your daughter up on your shoulders, obstructing the view of others when your daughter clearly didn't care. You kept poking and prodding her, trying to make her watch. You angered me more when I saw the child was not wearing any earplugs, even though there was a wall of speakers blaring. Then, "Meat Is Murder" began. Horrific slaughterhouse footage began to play on the massive screen. Your daughter began to scream, cry, point at the screen, and hide her face in her mom's legs. Rather than take her away, you chose to watch the show as your poor little girl saw horrors she's not yet cognizant to understand. All she knew was she was seeing animals being hurt and ripped apart. I'm a grown adult who's seen dead bodies and served jail time, and I couldn't bear to look at that shit. You are terrible parents. There's no way around it.—Anonymous


  • Kalah Allen

What was the last straw? Was it when we made Christmas cookies for you? Was it the July 4 BBQ we invited you to? Was it the conversations I had with my mom on the porch, when she stopped worrying about cancer long enough to come see me? Was it when you found out our accents weren't from Oregon? You sit in your perfect Portland house your parents passed down to you and judge young people who work GOOD JOBS and pump millions into the local economy so they can afford a SLICE of the Northwestern dream. You smile in our faces and bitch behind our backs to our landlord (your childhood friend) so you can hold on to the power you've always had on this block. Now we are displaced, our home is being rented by someone much worse, and I for one can't wait until the rest come and rip this city from your hands.—Anonymous

Stop Demolishing Portland!

I heard that they're going to take my favorite neighborhood asset—the abandoned lot full of weeds, garbage, and syringes—and turn it into 42 brand-new apartments! And probably the kind that yuppies like! Who will speak up for the pile of old tires? Did you know that's home for a large family of low-income mosquitos? What happens if the owner of that shopping cart full of wet newspapers comes back and can't find it? And what if some of the new residents have out-of-state license plates? We've got to mobilize NOW if we're going to save this eyesore for future generations!!—Anonymous

Stop Being Mad and Start Getting Weirder!

A while back I had a conversion with a woman who had recently moved here with her husband. When I asked why, she replied that, "Portland was too weird a few years ago, but now it's really nice." So they packed up and moved into the waning weirdness of our fair city. It's obvious we're upset by these people. The longtime residents (sure, some non-local, but fiercely Portland all the same) are irritated. We could actually give up and leave. To that I say, NAY. I say we stay and fight. I say we make Portland so fucking weird that it's downright uncomfortable for the newcomers. Make what was charming and twee into grating and infuriating. Turn the weird up to 11. Nail dildos to the trees in Laurelhurst Park. Try selling "healing crystals" off a Mexican blanket in front of Pok Pok. Dress as a clown and skateboard through the Pearl while loudly singing "Party in the USA." Campaign to get the Naked Bike Ride to be a monthly event. Tie bouquets of balloons to the mirrors of all cars with out-of-state plates. "Steak and Blowjob Day" parade! Have house parties that swell to more than 100 people, most of whom you don't know. This will make it Portland x 1,000. It will be more Portland than any NYC family or SF yuppie can handle. We can fight them with hatred or we can fight them with what makes us amazing. Let's make Portland WEIRDER.—Anonymous

  • Kalah Allen

Su Casa

Thank you for letting me stay at your house for the past four months; I know it's been rough on all of us. You just got married last summer and I didn't expect to be temporarily homeless and living on your couch, but here we are. Overall, it's been a pleasant stay, though there have been moments of tension. I've tried to stay out of your way and do what I can around your house. I've walked your dog daily, picked up its poop, washed dishes, scrubbed the toilet. I can likely never repay you for your hospitality and friendship. That being said... I've also masturbated countless times in your shower, smelled your wife's underwear and then rubbed them against me, snuck into your bedroom and laid naked on your bed while you were out, and eavesdropped several times on your lovemaking. It was good times all around and I'm a tiny bit sad to be moving out next week. Thanks again!—Anonymous

The Inconvenience of Convenience

I've been thinking about killing myself more and more often lately. But it turns out my life insurance doesn't pay out for suicides that occur within the first two years of the policy. Don't want to leave my relations sad AND empty-handed, so... only one year left to go! I guess we'll see what comes first: internal healing or clause 24a of my policy.—Anonymous

Pervert on a Train

  • Kalah Allen

So this morning on the train there was a homeless guy sitting next to a pretty gal who had her nose buried in a book. Suddenly the blonde gal got a stricken look on her face, got up, climbed over homeless dude, and whispered to me that the guy had taken out his penis and was rubbing himself. The homeless guy, still exposing himself, got up to sit with another young gal. He began to fondle himself again, so she immediately got up, too. Meanwhile the first girl he victimized was crying and extremely upset.

That was it, I had enough. I went to the conductor, and loudly told him what this pervert was doing. Then I went back and screamed at the guy, "You will not sit on this train and victimize women. Zip it up, and GET OFF NOW!!!" He grumbled and moaned, but got off the train. I was enthusiastically thanked by both gals, and would've felt satisfied and happy—except there were at least six other men sitting in that section. And not one got up to offer assistance.—Anonymous

Doctor's Note

  • Kalah Allen

Dear Drug Seeker—Hi, I'm Dr. Idiot! You're here for what? Severe back? Yeah, please continue with your excessively detailed story about your back... funny how you're totally vague about what it is you want. I'm sure you're not about to ask me for... Oxycodone?! And I almost fell for it. Thanks for fucking with my sensitivity compass. Now I will doubt the next patient with pain. Of course you're allergic to all other meds. Totally original. An insensitive prick? Moi? Gosh, you were so nice 10 seconds ago. Sorry you jobless, weed-stanky slob, this isn't Starbucks! I would MD-punch you right in the balls if I could. My nurses are wondering why it's always me who gets into it with pain patients, not realizing I'm the only doc who refuses to feed your addiction.—Anonymous

Cancer Does Its Thing, What's Your Excuse?

My mom got cancer, and I got you. You fucked around with me like a cat with a bird for a year before we started a grown-up relationship. The day it seemed like you were for real was the day she found out she was sick. I left to be with her for surgery/chemo, and when I got back you had me move in. You were so on. Things were good for a while and the treatment seemed to be working for her. But that winter she got sicker. I was working too much and you were getting re-self-absorbed and shitty and letting the fat girl who lost a little weight on your futsol team get a little too cozy (she's fat again, huh?). I got pregnant and tried to get an abortion without you knowing, but it was ectopic and I wound up in the ER. You didn't come with me once for any of the treatments. Mom was getting sicker. Went to SF with our "friends" for your birthday and I pretended like I had "cramps" while I passed fetal tissue in the bathroom at our Airbnb because I wanted to spare you and those "friends" the drama. Mom died, you didn't come to the funeral because you "couldn't deal." We separated. I finally started to recover and see someone new, and then you were gangbusting for me again. I was still in love with you and I'm a sucker, but not stupid and you fucked up again, this time real bad. Now you're getting doted on by dumb bitches you're fucking and "friends" who find you so darling and faultless. Cancer doesn't know what it's doing or done. What's your excuse?—Anonymous

  • Kalah Allen

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 at the beginning of what turned out to be a migraine that almost put me in the hospital. You did not know my husband was let go from a 16-year job during the recession, which leaves us short on money sometimes. What you did know was that my debit card was not accepted. And when I told the cashier that if she held my groceries, I'd be back soon to pay a different way, you said you would pay for them. When I thanked you, you said someone had done the same for you. I could see you did not want to make a big deal out of it. I wanted to give you a hug and tell you how grateful I was. I have tears in my eyes now just 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