It has come to my attention that a certain reader believes me to be a man. (Despite the fact that I posted a picture of myself) Because the male species is considerably inferior to the female (Sorry, boys. It’s not your fault. We don’t have penises to distract us) this information is quite disturbing to me. I realize the content of my blog is NOT what you would find daily on another woman’s blog, however, that is the thrill, is it not?
In all honesty, I believe there are many women out there who think the same way I do, they are just afraid to say whatever is on their mind, for various reasons. I consider myself to be the one to speak for odd and fucked up women everywhere. “Well-behaved women rarely make history”, or so I’ve heard, so if indeed I am to be mentioned in the textbooks of the future, it seems I must continue to misbehave and speak my mind.
It was brought to my attention the fool-hardiness of posting a picture of myself and mentioning where I work. These days, there are many creepies and stalker-type people about. Having already encountered said creepies BEFORE ever having a blog, I must state that no creepies can disturb me as much as those I’ve already met. And so, if posting a picture of myself causes the Brotherhood of Creepies to stir, I say, “Come and get me, Creepies! But beware. My 5″ heels are deadly when worn on my powerfully-muscled legs!” At least I will have something to write about in my blog if they come.
I have been told that the woman who would write the shit I write is seriously fucked up; and that the person who writes this blog is not that woman. It seems you each will have to get out your Fucked Up Meter and measure the extent of my fucked-up-edness, or, if you wish me to save you a few minutes, you can just believe me when I say, “I am abso-fucking-lutely without a doubt completely and utterly fucked up.” There’s not a damn thing I can do about it, so I guess I’ll just go with the flow…
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 
An Open Letter to Ibuyjunkvehicles
Salutations, Ibuyjunkvehicles.com,
I would not normally address such distasteful behavior as you have displayed, but at this time, I feel that I must.
It is true, comments that have been filtered into the junk pile automatically are of little consequence. In fact, since I have been absent from my blog of late, it may seem silly that I would even waste my time sifting through said comments. However, I recall a time when a complimentary remark was filtered by accident into that pit of desolation, so I have become accustomed to taking the time to reassure such a snafu is not repeated.
Which brings me to your wretched comments, Sir. (or Ma’am) It has come to my attention that you have found my “last several posts to be kinda boring” and these posts have been a “bit out of track.” Well, I am sorry.
I am sorry that you’ve been unable to (without my permission, I might add) “snatch my feed to keep updated”.
I’m sorry that you’ve forgotten how you raved about my writings in previous junk comments; using such words as “astonishing” and “extremely remarkable” to describe my posts.
I’m sorry that you “couldn’t depart my site prior to suggesting that you extremely enjoyed the standard information a person provide for my visitors.”
I’m sorry that your first language is clearly not English, and that you have obviously failed to find a suitable tutor to teach you how to properly use the English you do know.
I’m sorry that you buy junk vehicles, because in actuality I do not think you buy junk vehicles at all, since my junk feed is filled to overflowing with your ridiculous bipolar comments. It seems that you would have very little time to buy all the junk vehicles you so blatantly advertise in your email address.
I’m sorry that you will never meet me, because you were correct in your assumption that I am “an expert” on the subject of dancing babies. (Even though, by the title, I have no idea what that blog post was about.
In closing, I would like to state that I most certainly will not “come on”, as you so boorishly urged me, and I will write about WHATEVER the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want to- writings which are always fucking fabulous and “astonishing.” (OK, I can’t be mad at that last word you used.)
No Regards Whatsoever,
Sparklebumps
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