Tag Archives: rant

Why Hello There New and Improved Blog

Hi, I’m Melanie.  This is a continuation of my old blog that I retired due to the unruly people reading it.  These unruly people are called the Angry Mob Melanie Haters, and I am the maestro.  They are a group of people determined to ruin my life.  Just so you don’t miss out on all the fun, I’ll show you the very last post I wrote:

An ex-friend told L (the girl who slept with my ex-boyfriend while I was there to hear her moans [Yes she was moaning!])  they told her that I was writing shit about her in my blog.  This is a small example of who these people are.  They are ruthless and vengeful and will not stop until they see me dead and buried.  L never read my blog in her life, but after hearing that I posted shit, dug in her claws.  She didn’t like what she read.

I was being honest.  Everything was true!  TRUE TRUE TRUE!  She responded back by saying not to post stuff at the expense of others and that she’s a mother and a professional and to not publish it.  Then fucking act like a mother and a professional so you won’t have to hear hurtful truths.  It hurts to hear, but I’m right!

She had sex with him while I was THERE.  Do you have any idea how painful it was listening to something like that?  I don’t give a shit if I ever see these people again.  Everyone’s reading this, yay for everyone!  You can all suck monkey balls!

After reading my blog, L went and told Dave I was writing shit about him. These people are ruthless.  They don’t care who they hurt.  Haven’t they put me through enough hell?

So Dave found the link to my site which I’m pretty sure was given to him, and read everything.

I’m not apologizing to anyone.  My blog is anonymous.  I wanted everyone to stop invading my privacy and to stop reading it, but they didn’t.  Everything I write here is factual – REAL and HONEST, so nobody should have to “forgive” me for writing it.  They can’t forgive me because I’m not sorry!  If they still want to be my friend, they all have to grow up and own up.  Act like actual human beings carrying around godly souls instead of their unwavering meanness.  How can people live with themselves?  How can they treat a bleeding heart (me) like scum?  Not even scum, just an unmaterialized substance like I don’t exist.  Why can’t they see it?  Why’s it only me that see’s people?

All I’ve been saying to everyone is “I’m sorry, Oh I’m really sorry.”  I’m sick of apologizing.  I’m not kissing anyone’s ass anymore.  When I apologize, that’s like saying I was wrong.  But I’m not wrong.  I know I’m not wrong.

People are completely insane.  I look around me and all I see are grabby people.  Grabbing and clawing at me one minute and spitting on me the next.  Who are these fucking people?  Who the hell are they?

And what did I ever do?  I always try to do what’s right.  Always.  People are so damaged.  It kills me to witness it.  And I bend over, take it up the ass and say “I’m sorry.”

You can all shove it.  Work out your problems using someone else, I’m done taking it.

I feel like a maestro with a wand in my hand – orchestrating a symphony of Angry Melanie Haters.  The Angry Mob Melanie Haters – music to my ears.  Sing, bitch, moan, wail, throw stuff, leave me to die – leaving me to die is when the fat lady sings.




Everything was fine, I was forgiving and understanding.  But now after hearing them wanting me to apologize, no fucking way.  Fuuuck that.

I’m retiring this blog.  It’s gone too public now.  I’m starting over with a new one.  So all you assholes can’t read it anymore.  I’m dropping all my followers, starting my stats back to zero.  I hope you’re all satisfied with yourself.

Don’t try to find me cause you won’t.

Hope you enjoyed this shit show.

On a completely unrelated note, I massaged Mike Hunt the other day.  True story.

And that’s how I’m leaving things.  These people can’t harm me if they don’t have access to my blog anymore.  They are bad news.  It took a lot of guts for me to post that, but I won’t regret it anytime soon.  If anything, I would regret not posting it.

I imported all of my old entries because I didn’t want to start from scratch completely.  I’d like to keep a uniform, continuous account of my life.  My stats are at zero, my followers – a big fat O.

I’m crossing my fingers hoping no one finds me here.



Filed under All about me, journal

I’m too tired…..

Customers are Ignoring You

Customers are Ignoring You (Photo credit: ronploof)

I truly panicked over money last Tuesday.

I hoped my landlord forgot that I was renting a room from him. I tried to avoid running into him in the halls, but that didn’t work. He’s always there smiling and nodding his head at me saying, “Why hello there Melanie!” His old dog sniffing and nuzzling my leg.

“Hi Micky, good to see you. Hi Einstein.” I bend over to pet his dog.

I met with a Clipper Magazine consultant last Tuesday to try and set up some coupon deals and online vouchers – all done for free until I sell the vouchers online – they take a cut.

I sat in the conference room with the advertising guy while Micky played fetch with Einstein in the hallway.

Advertising guy – “Customers trickle in slowly with these deals, but unlike Groupon and Living Social, our customers stick.”

All advertisers say that their customers stick. Groupon and living social buyers hop from one deal to the next and will most likely never see me again.

He wasn’t very reassuring that I’ll make a lot of money from this. So I panicked.

After the meeting (which lasted an hour), I went upstairs to my mailbox behind the receptionists desk and there I found the invoice for my first months rent.


I paid Micky my rent using the rest of the money in my saving account and headed to Happy Tuesday to meet Dave and drink my cares away.

“I have to pray. There’s nothing left for me to do but pray. Please god help me. Please god help me.”

So far what I accomplished to set up my business is:

Create a website



Yellow pages

Google maps

Clipper magazine

Plum District


I think that’s it. Living Social and Groupon won’t bother talking to me until I’m more established and have a bigger online presence with customer reviews. For now I have to stick with the little guys.

I still need to set up a Facebook page, check out Deal of the Day offers in newspapers, get my name listed on Massage therapist finders (which I’m weary about doing because that’s the first place perverts look).

Instead of doing any of that, I’m laying in bed. I’m over-tired from lack of sleep and stressed about people and clients. My head feels like a big lumpy knot. Beer and laughter are the only things to make it better but I’m too tired for anything. I can barely write.

And I’m wishing that my co-worker remembered to bring me her Assassins Creed game. I would be playing that right now instead of caving into temptations to write.

I’m over tired from lack of sleep. I haven’t slept in two days because of staying up all hours of the night searching YouTube for information about the drugs I’ll be taking in Colombia. The more I research, the more I wish I never signed up for this Spiritual Retreat.

One such drug, or medicine as they call it, is Ayahuasca. It’s the most powerful hallucinogen on the planet. Many people who ingested it, claim that it was the most terrifying experience of their life. It was like living inside a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

Ayahuasca connects you to the spirit world and the visions produced are supposed to enlighten and guide you into your higher self. And for some people, this means confronting their worst fears and overcoming them – to stand up against them and not be afraid. It’s both terrifying and life altering. It breaks down the ego and personality. It shows you your weaknesses. It’s not fun, but it is believed to work better than spending years in self-analysis talking to a therapist.

I’m terrified already. I’m a lot more scared now than the time I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.

I’m picturing myself being there, sitting cross-legged in a circle of my peers. All of us praying, the musicians chanting and strumming their instruments when the shaman announces to everyone, “Now’s the time. Drink. Drink!”

People vomit and pee their pants. I take off all my clothes and run around naked, jumping into a river to drown. I’ve never been this scared in all my life.

Besides having to face the river of death on my own and being completely broke, I’m also dealing with people who are confusing the hell out of me.

My friend Steph is flying in from Minnesota to visit us, so one of my ex-friends decided to finally contact me after months of cutting me off and leaving my gaping wounds to fester. This is the girl who taken K’s side when I got back from Nepal, yelled at me, blamed me for everything, left me a crying whimpering mess – kicked me out of her house and hasn’t called me since. She left me for dead and now wants to be friends again with no apology on her end. How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? I feel like a beaten housewife who keeps taking on abuse. I honestly don’t know what people want from me.

They say I don’t respond or communicate my feelings, but I’m the only one of them who writes a blog confessing everything I have in me. I rip open a vein every time I sit in front of this thing. And from them I get nothing but hate and anger.

I don’t understand people, I’ll never understand them. I’ve done nothing wrong to anybody but I still get beat downs. It makes me so upset. People make me feel autistic.

Last night Kristi also contacted me wanting to be friends again. I like Kristi, she’s a lot of fun but I’m honestly scared to hang out with her again. The first time I can’t respond to her text, the first time I can’t answer her call – I’ll feel utterly guilty and miserable. She’ll get mad at me again. I know she’ll get mad at me again.

These people have obvious problems with me, so why are they even bothering with me? I feel yanked around. Do they care about me or not? I think they’re just bored.

I had a client the other day. I massaged him a few times before, and wasn’t looking forward to massaging him again. He’s a big black guy who keeps asking me out. He’s high on himself thinking that he’s god’s gift to women, so when I tell him I’m not interested, he calls me a lesbian.

Him – “What do you, like girls or somethin’?”

It is one of the most annoying remarks to have to deal with. Not the liking girls part, I can care less about that, but just his narcissistic attitude that something has to be wrong with me if I don’t want to date him. It revolts me. HE revolts me.

Him – “You ever date a black guy before?”

Him – “Why not?”

Refusing him makes me feel racist – that’s what he wants me to feel.

I don’t want to massage him anymore, but I can’t tell my co-workers that. I already told them I didn’t want to work on this other guy (who is also black), so they’ll think I’m a racist. The other black guy that used to request me was super obese, not getting any healthier and telling ME that I’m the one who has to fix him.

“I’ll come in every week if I have to.”

He was so big that he snored while he was awake.

There was nothing sexual with him and I felt completely safe, but massaging him made me miserable. I did it for 2 or 3 years. I can’t fix a persons bad knee’s and hips when all they do all day is sit around and eat, then come to me to complain.

So anyway, that’s my life right now.

Dave told me something last night that I put in my last blog post.

Dave – “Why do you think I keep you around? All I want you for is to get laid.”

He said it jokingly, but then he mentioned my blog and how he was going to get the link from one of my ex-friends, but she decided not to give it to him.

Me – “Did she give it to you?”

Dave looks down at his phone – “Naw she deleted it.”

Me – “She deleted it?”

Dave – “She said she didn’t want me thinking bad of you.”

Me – “Oh.”

Then he went on to tell me that K tells people I’m a liar and that I paid a tour group to take me over the Himalayan pass and that I was completely safe the whole time.

Me – “I didn’t hire anyone! I was lucky to have found them. It was the night before going over the mountain and they overheard my conversation about me doing it alone. They approached ME at the last minute.”

Dave – “Oh well, that’s not what she says.”

She continues to gossip and tell stories about me. Wasn’t I punished enough in Nepal? When’s it going to stop?

People are vicious and spiteful. I can’t handle it. I’m way too sensitive. And maybe I am naive and innocent, it makes it all the worse.

My phone is on silent.

I’m burnt out from late nights out, beer, YouTube, zero money, crazy people, the prospect of facing pure terror. I’m so worn out. It’s 7:31 pm on a Saturday and all I can think about doing is turning off the lights and going to sleep. I hope Kristi doesn’t call. If I miss her phone call, the cycle will repeat itself.

Are these thoughts / fears / worries of mine normal to have for a 32-year-old woman? Or am I on my own here…


Filed under journal, rant

Waitressing, Breaking dishes, customers from hell and taxes

This is from one of my old journals.  An oldie, but a goodie.

October 11, 2004   (waiting table’s at the Yankee Silversmith)

It was super busy tonight.  I was crabby and in the weeds when I got sat a two top – a mother and a daughter who just moved to town.

The mother says to me, “This is a nice area, are you from around here?”

“I’m from cheshire.”

“Where’s that?”  Every question is sinking me deeper into the weeds.  I’m impatient while she’s calm and chipper.

“It’s the next town over.”  The woman kept staring at me so I keep talking, “It’s nice there, too.”  Still the woman stares like bovine. “It has a nice high school.”

“Oh is that where you go?”  [I’m 24 and she’s asking if I’m still in high school]

“No, I graduated.”

“Where do you go now?”  Oh damn it to hell lady.

“I’m in-between school’s right now……It’s complicated.”  My face flushes, I start to sweat.  Again, she kept on staring at me.  “I don’t go to school, sorry.”

“So what do you do?”  Mother-fucker-god-damn-it lady.  I’m trying to fucking wait table’s! 

I start feeling ashamed like I always do when I’m confronted with that question.  The daughter is starring at me now – just like her mother.  She start’s giggling.  Where the hell are these freak’s from?

“I’m a starving artist.”

“Oh really?”  She keep’s her broad smile.  “What kind of art?”

“I’m not a starving artist.  I have no art.  I don’t know why I said that.”  Both Mother and daughter burst out laughing.  It’s like something out of the twilight zone.  Is this really happening?  Oh yes, yes it is.

[This really happened.  I changed the words around a bit to make it blog-friendly, but it’s exactly how it happened word for word.]

“I have to go check on a table.”

The night was so busy that the dishes were flying everywhere, and a few broke.  Mr. Masite would talk about how we have to pay for them out of our check.

“Plate cost a 14 dollar’s, they’re expensive.”

“Well Mr. Masite, what if I gave you $20 for the plate so that way you can put $6 of it towards your yacht fund.”  [I never actually said this to him]

I would have to work one and a half hours to replace one $14 plate if I was making banquet wages.  The very root of my existence in this world for that hour and a half would be to simply buy a new plate.  Working a banquet at the Yankee is like being at the hellmouth (Buffy the vampire slayer term).  Up and down flights of stair’s carrying tray’s stacked to the hilt with dishes, full water pitcher’s, cocktail glasses……etc.  Sweating, and hurting my back at the hellmouth for an hour and a half for a plate I can’t even keep for myself. 

I cringe when I think about how much money they’re making off of one banquet, and how much I’m getting in return compared to how much I give.  Oh how cruel the world can be!

Have you ever thought about how much ten bucks an hour is?  It mean’s that you can work non-stop for 24 hours at the hellmouth and only bring home $240.  If I worked for plates, my labor would equal out to be 17 plates for 24 hours of hard labor.

Maybe that can be a new value system.  Instead of judging people on their house’s and car’s, judge them on how much they’re worth in plates.  “Hi I’m Melanie, and I’m worth 17 plates.”

Let’s say I work a 40 hour work week. That sets me at a value of 28.5 plates, but I have to divide by 7 to get my true value of 4.  I’m only worth 4 plates a day.  Let’s say I break all 28.5 plate’s.  Mr. Masite would want me to pay for them, but this time I have to add in a six-dollar penalty per plate that would go towards his yacht fund.  I now owe him $570.  Thankfully he let me work an extra 17 hours that week to pay off the new debt I owed him.

Mr. Masite now has $170 towards his yacht.  Instead of putting himself thru some hard labor, he want’s me to keep working and “donating” money to his yacht.  Six dollars to every plate I’m worth.  I’m worth 4 plates a day, so I’ll have to give him $24 a day, 42% of my pay. 

If his yacht cost’s one million dollar’s, I would have to work 83 years to pay for his yacht.

However, if I was able to keep the missing 42% of my pay, it would only take me 48 years.

If I keep this ten-dollar an hour job, and the government would stop taking out taxes, I can buy a yacht in 48 years.  Something to think about.

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Filed under Old journals, rant

collaboration of humanity

I massage people of every size, age, sex and race.  I may have massaged family members of al-Qaeda, or long-lost cousins of Mother Theresa.  All that pass through my hands every week are different people from different backgrounds.  It’s poetic in a way.  They come to see me for a way of escape, a way to feel whole again.  For relaxation or pain relief, I’m here. 

I massaged a woman a few days ago who came to see me purely for personal gain, for selfish reasons.  Her back was messed up with huge bulging knots and hard fibrous masses of what-not, but she wasn’t there to see me.  She barely said two words to me.  She had no problem looking in my eyes and when she did, it was indifferent. She needed me, but her ego was too big to admit it.  So all she could do was treat me like a piece of equipment she’s renting for the hour.

It’s good to help the person trying to help you.  Just a friendly smile would’ve been enough for me.  Upon first meeting, she was scared to leave her belongings with me while she went to the bathroom.  Does being a lowly massage therapist automatically place me in the criminal category?  I’m a wellness provider – a giver, not a taker.

This is the sort of stuff I hate about my job.  That some people see me as being beneath them.  A whole slew of jobs can be put in the servant field.  It would be hard to find a job that is not in some way serving someone.  Whether it be upper management, customers, clients, the public.  Doctors serve us, hairstylist’s serve us, the daycare provider that watches your kid serves the whole fam.  Who doesn’t serve in some way?  And if they don’t, what is it that would enrich their lives and make it meaningful?

I’m lucky that my job entitles me to treat all individuals equal.  To not place judgments on them for their financial status or the house they live in.  We all have bodies, some functioning better than others, but they are all the same to me.  All different bodies, but there is no judgement on my part. 

It could be the tipping aspect that sets me a part from other jobs that serve.  The military serves their country, but you don’t have to tip them.  Are they more admirable because they don’t accept tips?  Ok, they are admirable, bad analogy.  But lets just say they DO accept tips, would that degrade their profession?  If a judge that serves the judicial system decree’s a life sentence to you, would it degrade him if you say “Thanks, here’s a twenty.” 

The people who love being an MT and thrive at it are admirable.  I envy admirable people.

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Filed under journal, Massage therapy, rant