Nemesis

The compulsive confessor is the bane of my existence - she really, truly makes me want to hurt someone. Before I explain why, a couple of caveats, sidenotes, legal disclaimers and the like:

While I don't know her personally, I've heard from people who do, that eM is an entirely normal person. This diatribe isn't meant to be a personal attack, it's just an indictment of her puke-inducing blog.

Before going into what I hate about the site, here's the ONE THING I absolutely love - the comments section. It is surely in the highest pantheon of blogs' comments sections - pure gold. Every post has literally tens of comments espousing diametrically opposed viewpoints, constantly battling with and belittling the other side. I love, love, love it. Whether you think she's a skanky whore or the leader of the indian sexual revolution - you have to give her credit, she polarizes like none other (except Hitler maybe. And perhaps Kobe Bryant).

That being said, here are all the reasons I hate this infernal blot on the internet:
1) The writing is putrid. I don't believe this statement needs any explanation - it is self evident.
2) I REFUSE to give credence to the ridiculous notion some of her supporters hold that she is somehow driving indian feminism forward. That's beyond absurd - all she is doing, is relating relatively boring, but somewhat sexual aspects of her life that tend to titillate the repressed indian sexual psyche. And yes, I know that through her writing it seems as if she has matured over the last couple of years, but I'm not giving her credit for that - it's what people in their mid-20s do. They mature. Hey, over the last three years, I think I have come closer to accepting the notion of being monogamous and spending the rest of my life with one woman - where's my cookie?
3) She got a fucking book deal out of this blog. I refuse to link to the relevant amazon webpage, because actually seeing her published work on amazon may make me spontaneously combust. Seriously. Am I jealous, you ask? Am I bitter? No fucking shit, of course I am. Her writing is of the same level as my soccer playing. And you don't see Arsenal handing me a contract, do you? In fact, sometimes, even my 8-on-8 co-ed soccer team benches me. And that's fine - because that skinny, tall blonde girl who kicks freakishly hard does sort of deserve to start ahead of me when she isn't still drunk from the night before. But I digress - my point is this, shouldn't there be some sort of writers' bench on which we can put eM? And more importantly, how would we "bench" her? Also, what's the co-ed soccer league equivalent of writing? Someone needs to answer these questions.
4) One quick note about her book - it's called "You are Here". I understand that by mentioning the name, I risk giving her free publicity in the shape of the four people who read this blog, but I have to make an important point - what the FUCK kind of name is that? Of course I'm here, you flipping idiot, where the fuck else would I be? There? I'm not some kind of magician now, am I? I'm always fucking "here" because that's what "here" means. "Here" is goddamned defined as wherever the fuck I currently am. Fuck me.
5) Lastly - the reason I hate this blog so much, is because it has managed to make my hate myself. No, really, there's nothing I abhor more than myself. Why, you ask? Let me count the ways:
i) I hate myself for ever having visited what is surely the literary equivalent of Dante's ninth circle of hell.
ii) I hate myself more for actually visiting the website on a fairly regular every-ten-days basis. Why? I have no fucking idea - I just can't stay away. Perhaps I'm a sucker for punishment; a masochist even. I knew enjoying being whipped by a 300-pound black woman was a sign of something - but this? THIS? It's just not fair.
iii) But, I hate myself the most, because in the event that I visit the devil's domain and the evil incarnate hasn't posted anything new, I'm actually mildly irritated, since now, I have nothing new to hate.
OH MY FUCKING GOD - I WANT her posts, I NEED her posts.
What have I become?