Don't Mess With My Ilana.

So, here's the thing. Say what you will about Ilana Sivachenko. Just be forewarned that I will mess your shit up. I heart Ilana. I would wear proudly a shirt that says in big Impact font letters that I heart Ilana.

This is why it bugs the living Christ out of me when someone erroneously targets her in a MySpace firestorm just because they can. I won't name names, but I will say that this is nothing new in the case of the perpetrator. Ilana doesn't need your crap. So back the hell off. If it were me, I wouldn't be starting this. I would take this MySpace shit and swallow it down, swallow my pride, and let this continue. But this is where I draw the line. Just because this perpetrator is mad at me gives them no right to start something with my friends.

This perpetrator has no right to go on pushing people around, pretending that they are the only one ever to be hurt by anyone else. They have hurt all of us.

I know that to anybody outside of my social circle, this makes no sense. It's a pointless post to those of you who like to hear my poop stories. Also those of you who read just because you like to hear me talk about how depressed and sad I am because of this or that, bits and bobs about my silly little life. But it had to be said.

In other news, is anyone else peeing their pants over school starting again? I literally am counting the days, I think it's something like 45, though that's debatable depending on when school actually starts. I'm excited not to see my friends, but to go to my new! special! classes! like English 11 and Anatomy and Calculus! of all things. Why is this? Because I really do like to feel smart, and part of feeling smart involves me having advanced classes, requiring glasses, and having a blog.

Yes, Internet! I love my blog! I love my blog. I love that I can write what I think, I love that hardly anybody reads, I love that I have a specific URL that I can twist to my own tastes. And I love that I can take someone to task at a place they never visit, or at least, claim not to, and not have to worry about who's reading it.

Actually, I have less of a problem telling the Internet really gritty things about me than I do talking to my own mother. Why? Because my mom is like a friend, and the Internet is an expanse of cloudy ether. Nameless, faceless patrons passing by, that's what I think of the Internet. Maybe that's a common trait of my generation. (Thus breeding the whole "To Catch A Predator" and that so-called child pornography built upon camera photos of blurry genitalia) Maybe it's just a common trait of bloggers. Either way, Internet, here I am to bear out my soul and tell you things I can't say anywhere else:

DON'T FUCK WITH ILANA.