It's *so* not fair. You bound onto the net like a smally yappy geekpuppy in your senior year of college.... hang out in Blake's 7 and Doctor Who newsgroups and mailing lists and generally act like an idiot who doesn't realize typing in all caps is rude... And somehow nobody ever takes your head off for being such a net-newbie babblemouthed twit, and you move on. Yeah. Change your name, paint your car, get a new fandom, start making boys kiss each other...
And you think it's all behind you. Because dude, nobody keeps old lysator messages from 19-fucking-95, right? They're all hidden on my zipped e-mail-from-college disks, and maybe on Calle's hard drive somewhere...
There's a freakin' archive. There's evidence of the young Mad Poetess in all her multiple-exclamation-mark glory, out there for all the world to see.
Although it's nice to know I was occasionally amusing, this is a travesty. Something must be done.
(Sadder still, this particular post is from 1998. I will defend the run-on sentence though, since it was an entry in a Bulwer-Lytton contest, and was supposed to be horrible.)
Shall be online tonight after all. If I ever get home.
- This is another Mad Poetess. Not Me.