"Dear Sir, I've A Complaint."

"And the wise man said I don't wanna' hear your voice..."

Annie McDermott wonders how many others think, "What I really want to post in my status update is this...but I'll post an innocuous something else instead."

Annie McDermott, whom you all think quite outlandish or inflammatory with her Facebook status updates/postings, very often feels compelled to say the following, but instead, bites her proverbial, metaphorical tongue:

...fears she will never, ever teach in the college classroom ever again.

...does not want to get married, now knows this as fact, but lives desperately lonely for a lover.

...wants an engagement ring, given to her by a man madly in love with her, but not given with some intention for marriage. They're just very pretty, and the only piece of jewelry I ever wanted or would ever wear. Also, they keep the dogs at bay.

...knows her writing is unpublishable.

...trembles before the genius of her peers.

...thinks a few of her former grad school comrades have grown too big for their britches, and they need to make haste for the tailor. Or Weight Watchers - whatever "fashions" their egos back into shape.

...doesn't know how, even if she were able to somehow make it back into the classroom as teacher, she'd ever make a living, given the current financial woes/collegiate crises that hit English departments especially hard.

...is sick and fucking tired of people telling her to get married for money and security. Fuck off.

...feels awful that she cannot donate a cent to any one of the recent worldwide tragedies.

...rather enjoys living life without a cell phone.

...suffers a degree of pain of level 5 or above every single day.

...learned to shut her mouth about how much pain she is in every single day, because...see closing lines.

...almost never leaves the house, other than to obtain cigarettes.

...absolutely, positively, unabashedly fucking loves smoking. Loves it. It causes cancer? No, I didn't know but thank you for informing me. You really think I don't know the terrible, horrible ramifications? I quit drugs, I found sanity (which leaves a lot of vices behind), I'm bankrupt which means no whimsical shopping (something else I fucking loved), I have no appetite due to my sanity-inducing meds so there goes gluttony, I'm single and goddammit, I know a guy and he gets me my cancersticks for free. I. Love. SMOKING. Now leave me the fuck alone about it!

...loves being in love.

...hates feeling caged-in.

...has a knack for choosing men who want to "fix" her. Here's an idea: Go f...ix yourself.

...has never let anyone know her completely. Not one single person. It's an impossible feat, knowing everything about me. Also, an exhausting one.

...thinks toothbrushing is the worst of all hygiene practices, akin to manual labor. May as well be scrubbing grout lines with the damn thing. Too much work and toothpaste tastes like ass. Blech.

...still, brushes her damn teeth.

...knows she is an underachiever. She also knows Life hasn't been too helpful with the "achieving" stuff lately. Still, an underachiever. No need to remind her.

...still doesn't know if she wants to have children or not. Maybe one and only one. To be raised by her, and only her.

...wears her pink fluffy robe every day, whether pajama-clad beneath or fully-dressed. The situation is dire; security blanket proportions. Think Wonder Boys.

...needs to get laid very, very soon -- as in now -- before she forgets exactly how that "works."

...doesn't really give a shit what you ate for lunch. Unless there's some scintillating story behind your meal, or further details about the event likely to make me laugh, such as, "I choked on my salmon skin roll at lunch today and very nearly died," or, "On my walk home from the bistro, where I enjoyed a delicious French Onion Soup, a car struck me, launching me 30 feet into the air; more details updated from my iPhone upon landing," honestly, without plot such as that, I could give a flying potato what you ate, are about to eat or are currently eating.

...has a baby name picked out. And no, I will not tell you what it is because it is so awesome, you will steal it. (No, it is not "Faulkner" or any variation thereof.)

...has three very odd song lyrics that most commonly occur to me when approaching the vast, empty update box - nonsensical and never to be posted, as they are...well, nonsensical and I still don't know why they occur to me but here they are, now, finally freed:

1) Black boys are delicious! Chocolate-flavored looooove! (Just those lyrics, not the rest. No earthly good reason.)

2) If you're ev-errrr up a tree...call on meeeee-eeeeeee! If you're ev-errrr in a jam...here I aaaaaa-yammmm! (My Daddy used to sing that just, oh, every day.)

3) ...says, "I'm like Jesus, I save those who do believe, do ya, do ya believe?" (Even I'm not audacious enough to say that, but, apparently, Collective Soul are. Yet...I think about it.)

There used to be others, like Pink Floyd's opening to "Comfortably Numb" ("Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me... Is there anyone at home?") and several Killers and Kings of Leon lyrics, but I posted the former once and the latter, several times. Doesn't mean I won't again, though.

...wishes you all would just shut up with your inane babble and tell the fucking truth.

...feverishly hopes you whack-jobs grow-up, cut the apron strings and get your politics figured out left.

...fervently desires a world populated by adults who remember how to laugh and play.

...hopes against hope that the final scene of Fight Club will one day be a reality. (And that Edward Norton is there to hold my hand and watch the whole spectacular beauty go down. Then, we make out.)

...vacillates between wanting to hang tight for the right time for a potential baby or seeking an at-home hysterectomy kit. Four consecutive rounds with the bastard ovary in 6 weeks - I'm on the verge, here. I birth cysts, not children. I should name them... "I ruptured twins this month - Cystal and Ebert." "Everyone, it's a girl! Meet Cystal Gale!"

...loves all of you, but positively adores some of you and many of the adored, I've never even met or barely knew long ago. What's up with that?

...would hate God for all of the Hell he put her through as a child, if she now so much as believed in even the concept of him.

...looks sickly these days with the wow skinniness, paleface and hair-thinning. Thanks, Topamax/Lamictal Cocktail!

...remains grateful for the Topamax/Lamictal Cocktail, because - fuck all, man - it ain't Depakote, Lithium or Thorazine. Holy Hell... Literally.

...is still quite crazy, but crazy-good, not crazy-bad. That is to say, I won't boil your bunny. Wait. Wait wait wait - that sounds awful. I never boiled bunnies. Just the occasional bird.

...still can't imagine what The University of Houston was thinking when they accepted me.

...refuses to post status updates simply because I am "told" to. I support the troops. I love my mom. I am aware of the Haitian earthquake and resulting crisis. I think it's a pretty weak move, to post the standardized updates, rather than write your own damn words. Love your mom? Write something revealing of her character, strength, letting us know why she's so damn lovable. Support the troops? Want us more aware of Haiti? Link up some articles and inform people. Quit bein' such a damn unoriginal pussy. It's that kind of follower behavior that leads to unhappy marriages and bitter divorces. And, of course, drug use.

...did the math once she got clean and - let's just say in my using days, I took a lot of pills. Also, I had several people double-check the arithmetic. It was correct. I don't know what was more shocking - the figure or that I figured it correctly.

...still harbors some small resentment for my mother, for not taking me to the hospital when I finally decided to get clean - off of a 300 mg. per day methadone addiction. Nobody should do that at home, alone. You're risking your life. I understand her action, or lack thereof, somewhat...but don't understand her inability to understand still, to this day, how serious that situation was. I think to understand it now would upset her.

...watched Mike Starr on "Celebrity Rehab" the past few weeks and saw him nearly cross over into a psychotic break while detoxing off of methadone - a 100 mg. per day addiction. And I thought, "I wish Mom would watch this and finally get it." But she refused.

...could never repay my mother for all she's done for me.

...wishes people understood that she fully accepts her designation as "addict," but that she never sought the role; rather, fell into it accidentally courtesy of so many agonizing chronic illnesses, pain that led to the greedy hands that gave her a helpful push into the abyss. The worst kind of drug dealers alive: pain management specialists. Close second: addiction specialists.

...has broken a lot of hearts.

...admits that - yes - I still have a "thing" for dark-skinned, long-haired bad-boy types. Especially if they're "artsy." Christ, I'm just dooming myself.

...has a life story too long and graphic and sad and statistical and overwhelming to share with anyone. Including you.

...doesn't want to venture into another serious relationship ever again because she is too long with sad stories and too short and recent with the good stuff and she's rather sick and tired of overwhelming men with not just the stories, but Annie, as she is.

...is a lot to handle. And no, sir, you are not the one to "handle me."

...had a hot ham and cheese sandwich for lunch. Toasted.

...feels like an utter fool, waste-of-space, moron, jackass, loser every time she shows her face on Facebook. Because I'm still battling my Hellers, remain unemployed, living with my parents, unpublished, bankrupt and I feel like

Annie McDermott has said enough.

"And there's nothin' to say and there's nothin' to do..."