Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay
A while ago, I wrote this post about sometimes having problems responding to comments right away.
Before I get around to what leads me to revisit this post, allow me to just say that I had a very difficult day.
As my -666 readers on this blog may be aware, my son purchased a house in a very small town using inheritance money, and I am going to be living there with him. I am unemployed except for freelance work due to my deteriorating health. This house is a little over 125 miles from the townhome where my son has lived for 10 years. It has to have electrical and plumbing work done before we can move in. We've had to go up there twice this week to deal with contractors, and today the people from the Historical Society came to view the place, which is on the Colorado Historical Registry to see if my son might qualify for a grant of some kind.
I was all ready to help out when suddenly my blood sugar decided to take an express elevator straight to hell.
There were five people in the group, but I was seeing ten people. I was pasty and diaphoretic. I was drenched in foul-smelling sweat. I excused myself and went to sit down before I fell down while my son took the group on a tour of the place.
I took my blood sugar reading and it was in the hole. I ate a mini-Danish and checked it again ten minutes later. I still felt like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound sack. It was ten points higher but still in the hole. I ate a glucose tablet, waited ten minutes, and checked it again. It had risen to 102 and I didn't feel like fainting anymore, but I felt like I had just run a marathon.
I needed to lie down, but there is no bed or couch in the place yet. I rolled up a blanket inside my old pizza carrier from when I was delivering food and created a makeshift pillow. I lay down on the floor to take a nap. I knew I would pay the piper, but I had to be able to drive home.
Sure enough, every inch of my body ached. Bone, muscle, skin, I think even my hair. I took Naproxen, but it didn't help much. I sat down to see if there was a new poetry prompt, hoping to relax a little. I wrote a snarky little Senryu and went to answer comments.
Lo and behold, because somehow the Universe always know when I need bullshit the least and that's when it always delivers a steaming pile to my doorstep, I received this honey of a comment.
If you made comments on other poems, you might have some on yours. I have made positive comments on your poems and you never even said thank you. So this is the last time I am commenting on ykur lost. Don't be a prick slick.
I'm not correcting any of the typos. I wonder if this individual was drunk typing. Whatever. She's been contentious towards me (and others) in the past, and this is why I tend to avoid interacting with her. The "Don't be a prick, slick" remark is a dig at my Rules of Engagement, which go like this:
We love comments, with three caveats.
Be cool, Fool.
Don't be rude, Dude.
Don't be a prick, Slick.
That's all, Saul.
I replied:
That's fine with me. I sometimes have difficulty returning comments. You do whatever you want. I sometimes reply to comments right away, sometimes I have trouble doing so due to mental health issues or circumstances. You could just opt to not comment rather than be contentious.
Seriously, there are times when I comment on people's blogs and they never return my comments. I don't get in a dither about it. Either I go ahead and comment anyway because I feel like it, or I don't comment. It's really that simple. You don't know what another person may be dealing with. Which is the way I'm trying to look at you because I'm dealing with a great many other things and it isn't worth it to put myself in a tailspin about a person I don't even know getting upset with me about something which at worst is a minor social faux pas. I apologize that you're offended that I haven't always replied to your comments (or other people's) immediately. However, it really is not worth scolding someone over. I hope you feel better for having "put me in my place." I'm a bit gobsmacked, so, mission accomplished, I suppose. Go you.
The unfortunate outcome of this is that I no longer feel comfortable sharing links at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads blog hops because this individual is one of their admins. I really cannot deal with her unpleasant personality at this point in time.
She attacks other people too. She wasn't always part of the admin team, so I suppose she must be friends with someone there. In any case, having a blog admin who goes off like Donald Trump on Twitter when people don't respond in the correct way tends to drive participants off. Losing me won't hurt the Real Toads blog much because it's fairly popular, but it's a shame nonetheless because I've participated there for many years.
Before I get around to what leads me to revisit this post, allow me to just say that I had a very difficult day.
As my -666 readers on this blog may be aware, my son purchased a house in a very small town using inheritance money, and I am going to be living there with him. I am unemployed except for freelance work due to my deteriorating health. This house is a little over 125 miles from the townhome where my son has lived for 10 years. It has to have electrical and plumbing work done before we can move in. We've had to go up there twice this week to deal with contractors, and today the people from the Historical Society came to view the place, which is on the Colorado Historical Registry to see if my son might qualify for a grant of some kind.
I was all ready to help out when suddenly my blood sugar decided to take an express elevator straight to hell.
There were five people in the group, but I was seeing ten people. I was pasty and diaphoretic. I was drenched in foul-smelling sweat. I excused myself and went to sit down before I fell down while my son took the group on a tour of the place.
I took my blood sugar reading and it was in the hole. I ate a mini-Danish and checked it again ten minutes later. I still felt like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound sack. It was ten points higher but still in the hole. I ate a glucose tablet, waited ten minutes, and checked it again. It had risen to 102 and I didn't feel like fainting anymore, but I felt like I had just run a marathon.
I needed to lie down, but there is no bed or couch in the place yet. I rolled up a blanket inside my old pizza carrier from when I was delivering food and created a makeshift pillow. I lay down on the floor to take a nap. I knew I would pay the piper, but I had to be able to drive home.
Sure enough, every inch of my body ached. Bone, muscle, skin, I think even my hair. I took Naproxen, but it didn't help much. I sat down to see if there was a new poetry prompt, hoping to relax a little. I wrote a snarky little Senryu and went to answer comments.
Lo and behold, because somehow the Universe always know when I need bullshit the least and that's when it always delivers a steaming pile to my doorstep, I received this honey of a comment.
If you made comments on other poems, you might have some on yours. I have made positive comments on your poems and you never even said thank you. So this is the last time I am commenting on ykur lost. Don't be a prick slick.
I'm not correcting any of the typos. I wonder if this individual was drunk typing. Whatever. She's been contentious towards me (and others) in the past, and this is why I tend to avoid interacting with her. The "Don't be a prick, slick" remark is a dig at my Rules of Engagement, which go like this:
We love comments, with three caveats.
Be cool, Fool.
Don't be rude, Dude.
Don't be a prick, Slick.
That's all, Saul.
I replied:
That's fine with me. I sometimes have difficulty returning comments. You do whatever you want. I sometimes reply to comments right away, sometimes I have trouble doing so due to mental health issues or circumstances. You could just opt to not comment rather than be contentious.
Seriously, there are times when I comment on people's blogs and they never return my comments. I don't get in a dither about it. Either I go ahead and comment anyway because I feel like it, or I don't comment. It's really that simple. You don't know what another person may be dealing with. Which is the way I'm trying to look at you because I'm dealing with a great many other things and it isn't worth it to put myself in a tailspin about a person I don't even know getting upset with me about something which at worst is a minor social faux pas. I apologize that you're offended that I haven't always replied to your comments (or other people's) immediately. However, it really is not worth scolding someone over. I hope you feel better for having "put me in my place." I'm a bit gobsmacked, so, mission accomplished, I suppose. Go you.
The unfortunate outcome of this is that I no longer feel comfortable sharing links at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads blog hops because this individual is one of their admins. I really cannot deal with her unpleasant personality at this point in time.
She attacks other people too. She wasn't always part of the admin team, so I suppose she must be friends with someone there. In any case, having a blog admin who goes off like Donald Trump on Twitter when people don't respond in the correct way tends to drive participants off. Losing me won't hurt the Real Toads blog much because it's fairly popular, but it's a shame nonetheless because I've participated there for many years.
~The Cheese Hath Grated It~
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