responding to a reader's email in a self-indulgent, exploitive way

This is an email I received around Christmas time that was just re-forwarded to me by its original author who follows my Twitter feed:

I can't believe I just spent 30 minutes reading your blogs.

They are like a bloody car crash, but I love them.

Can I just say for the record, that I am both completely conscious and unconscious of my utter lack of impulse control that often manifests itself as a blog entry? I know I'm doing it before, during and after doing it, but I don't know how to stop. Living extremely candidly when I feel the urge has been what's best for me in a lot of ways. Don't get me wrong, I'm not doing Julia Allison traffic over here-- hello bombs! It's a random personal blog that has some pretty passionate readers and stuff. Let's keep it loose. I don't want to drag everyone through the mud with me when I'm not feeling happy or snarky, but I am a person. I've got all of the emotions and sometimes I have all of them at the same time.

Yes, I have totally written things on this blog with tears streaming down my face so hard that I could barely make out the words I was typing (BTW, what an attractive mental image. Can you shoot me for including that? This is exactly what I mean. Thank you for allowing me to prove my previous point. Moving on...) Yes, I've been writing some things here and elsewhere and been simultaneously thinking "Molly, the consequences of putting this out there could be people thinking shitty things about you, those that you're writing about, and your mother for not raising you to just shut the fuck up and deal the way people did before blogs existed." I realize that there are quite a number of people I could have almost wrecklessly offended or hurt with some of the things I've said. Part of me completely hates myself for it at times... Am I going to die alone because I'm like this? Maybe. I have learned that even though that's the last thing I want, it might be exactly what I get. It's cool because I guess it just fucking has to be. [Note to LAT/NYT editors who will undoubtedly pick up this up for the think-piece you write about me: "It's cool because I guess it just fucking has to be." is the quote I would like to have next to the smiling picture of my face, blown up and in italics. I know you don't usually swear in the newspaper, but "fucking" is a helluva lot less offensive than some of your recent reporting. I don't need to give examples. Plus, I get all my information from blogs and second-hand from my friends. But you know what I'm talking about. Point: McAleer. Email me.]

If I write about being hurt or upset or scared, it's not an open invitation for people to validate me. As much as I am an attention-whoring love-sponge, I am also a big fucking girl. I just happen to document a fair portion of my life in a ridiculously public manner.  Not every day is going to be sunshine and roses or iced coffee and bong hits. Not every boy I care about is going to feel the same way back. Not every work day, even at the best jobs, is going to be challenging in an interesting or fun way.

In an ideal world, I would wake up in a bed made of down feathers at 9 am, go swimming at the beach and spend the rest of the day watching movies and eating candy in my bathing suit. I'd have this really funny and awesome boyfriend who gets it and wants to pass the time with me whenever we aren't off somewhere being awesome individuals.  But that's not my life or anyone's life. I would say that until up about a week ago, it sounded like Kate Hudson's life but we all know that even she can't keep her shit together.

If Kate Hudson is allowed to get dumped by a uniballed bike-jockey, then I am allowed to write about my feelings nearly inconsequentially all over the fucking internet. I'm sorry, that's just how logic works. If you don't get it, you must not have taken a logic class in school and therefor your issue is not with me, but your parents or whomever raised you for not making your high school education a sturdy one. 

I hate to sweep something under the rug that started fairly earnestly with dumb jokes about testicular cancer. Here: If your read this blog, which the author herself is admitting is a completely self-indulgent, typically mindless series of anecdotes, jokes and shit she found on the internet, I expect that you're probably a mix of the following: horrified, intrigued, concerned, empathetic, mildly otherwise-amused, and possibly fairly indifferent but you have a lot of time at work/you masturbate while looking at the pictures of either myself or Ed. In response to all emotions listed above and more, I say this to you: I feel the same way reading it, too. I'm learning a lot about myself and that feels really good because I'm enormously self-involved.

And just one last final and completely unrelated note: My beloved partner in crime over at Bedtime had a birthday yesterday and he deserves something pretty awesome, but I was busy with me all day. The one thing he asked is that whatever I get him should be sexy.

Well, Alex. We talked about the nudie pics and I'm sorry, but no dice. What I can do for you is attempt to get you laid. and maybe a girlfriend.

Ladies, if you live in NYC, preferably Brooklyn and more specifically Williamsburg, email Alex. He's cute as cute can be. He's in a band. He makes movies on the internet. He respects the ladies and he's probably romantic and stuff. Someone I know once saw a video of his dick and said that it was "a good one." Let's put it this way: he's like bacon.  He's super funny and has awesome taste in bad movies.

Hope that works, Buddy. If it hasn't worked by the time I'm in NY in the fall, I will buy you a high-class hooker and medium sized amount of the liquor of your choice.