Dear Mrs. Crabby,

I hope you are really there. I hope I am really here. I am desperate. I have no sense of identity. Every day, all day, all I do is do for others. Do and do. Do, do, do. My life is do do. For my children. For my husband. For my family. All day.

There is never any time for me. Maybe 10 minutes or 5 minutes here or there. So I joined a social media group to have someone to talk to.

It seems there are others in the same position out there. Soon I had over 800 contacts on this network. We sent each other funny cards. We inspired each other when down. We shared recipes for granola. At last I felt I had a place to exist! I was reborn into a life of connection! It was wondrous. Although the bills didn’t get paid on time and the laundry piled up and my hair wasn’t washed as often. So what, I thought! I have friends now!

But then someone from my past showed up and started stalking me. I blocked him, but then he friended some of my other friends and stalked me through them. They wouldn’t block him, because they thought he was cute. Then he started showing up at the market when I was shopping, and standing in the yard across the street. And I live in Los Angeles and he lived in Pittsburgh. I say lived, because he actually died. And apparently his bathroom was plastered with pictures of me.

And then someone my mother was friends with when I was in college, friended me. Every day on almost every one of my entries, this person would have a nasty, or critical comment. So I blocked that person. That one was easier.

Then a couple other people started leaving messages and comments that I was a piece of sh*t and should just shut up.

Well, you get the idea, Mrs. Crabby. I’ve left this site and gone back into the anonymous cloud of non-existence. It’s actually a comfort now. The laundry’s done. The lights are turned back on, and my hair is clean.

But here is my question to you. How can I possibly know if I exist? I have heard from no one at all in the past few days. That part is a bit disconcerting. Please help.



Dear Helen,

Hon, you silly piece of sh*t, of course you don’t exist. None of us does. We are all silly pieces of sh*t, and bone and blood and parasites and empty space. Every single one of us. We only exist in our own minds. If you believe you exist then, VOILA! There you are. That’s the point.

These social media people are no different from society, except for one very important element. While in their fleshly lives they are probably wonderful, lovely, interesting folks to know, they are completely without necessity for morality, honesty or social mores online. Most of them carry their dignity with them as they type. Some can’t handle it. It is the most basic of urges in our species to control, dominate and abuse. It’s a powerful reflex that some cannot control. You included, hon.

You set out to try to find a love connection. Friend love. And you did create this. And it is all just an illusion, as you are in real-time. And that’s OK.

Look at it this way, you must have extraordinary talents that you have yet to tap if you inspire stalking and obsession and anger in others. To the point they want to bring it up close and personal. That’s star power, hon! You just have to go on an inner walkabout to find it, harness it and get it working in your favor. And you’ll have to do this without a guide, because most people are jealous of this kind of ability and would rather stand with their foot on your neck holding you down, while prattling on like a tour guide.

You don’t exist, Helen. Neither do I. But you can make up whatever you want. May I suggest that you either purchase a set of blow up dolls, or create people dolls from your linens, as friendly company, until you figure all this sh*t out.

IB Crabby


Tell Mrs. Crabby all!

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