oh and

Obviously there have been no responses to my offer to resolve this, blah blah blah blah blah.

As Shakespeare once said...

...the lady doth protest too much, methinks.

But, to paraphrase an old vaudeville joke, that was no lady, that was my internet freak!

It's funny, for all Janna's blowing smoke up my ass about my motivation for being with "Jesse," when I start going through all the receipts of the things I bought for "Jesse," "Rhys," and all the friends and family associated with him, and Janna and all the friends and family associated with her, I've actually spent a ridiculous amount on all of them, which really means Janna and Janna alone. Not that I would have cared, if her intentions had been honorable. I sent "Jesse" a vast amount of gifts, and "Rhys" got his share also. I spent a massive chunk of change on their Christmas presents, as well as all the movie merchandise I sent to "Jesse," and friends. I spent close to a grand on all of the Christmas presents for Janna and her family. I'd say over those twenty months Janna St. James was pulling her con on me she got at least five grand's worth of gifts out of me.

She pisses and moans about how my gifts made her feel uncomfortable, but I never got anything returned to me, so I guess she wasn't that uncomfortable. Certainly she encouraged me at times, she sure fucking didn't dissuade me from sending the giant Christmas package to her, either this past year or the year before that. Didn't stop her from ogling the stuff I gave her upon her arrival at my house last month.

I know. I spend time and dedication and money on people I think are my friends. Go figure.

Yeah. So who's the golddigger here? Hmmmm. Enjoy all those presents, Janna.

Zol er krenken un gedenken. Gonif.

uh huh

So, over a week's gone by and zero response to my offer for an impartial person to certify proof that "Jesse" existed and wasn't just an elaborate hoax concocted by a bored sick fuck.

Janna St. James = lying sack of shit.

For the record. Just in case anyone was wondering.

something for all you Googlers

Click this for more enlightenment. At least it's a place to start...

Oh, all right. And this.

And here's one that says a lot.

If you poke around enough, you'll find more than a few startling similarities. I know she's asserted that someone was impersonating her, but if that's the case, then they still are, because the Janna on there is the Janna I know, and I've met her, seen the copy of her drivers license, and heard the stories from her own lying lips. So maybe she's impersonating herself. Go figure.

I guess, since she's a pretty horrible person to be, it's no wonder she's going around wanting to impersonate a dozen other fictional people.

this is stupid

You know, I've been going about this all the wrong way. I write stuff and I get Janna or her Jannafestations asserting this or that with no real backup. I then try to respond to all the bitchery and psychological tomfoolery with logic while getting none in return. Just meanness and more bitchery and psychological tomfoolery. Fuckit.

Have I mentioned that I had no suspicions myself up till the day my friends got me out of the house, showed me their findings and confronted Janna? Have I mentioned that I was shocked to see all their evidence? Have I mentioned that I was shocked that Janna said absolutely nothing to change my friends' minds? They said "we know Jesse is fake and we'd like you to leave," and she said, calmly, "okay." They implored her to provide some sort of evidence that could prove them wrong. My friends love me (I'm seeing how much these days and I love them back), and they wanted to be wrong about all of this almost as much as I wanted them to be wrong, maybe more. But nothing from Janna. She couldn't provide the name of the hospital where "Jesse" stayed, but she could have done any number of things that day to show them they were wrong: she could have made any number of calls from her own cellphone, to "Annie," or "Cakey," or "Jesse's" lawyers, even "Alice" if it were just to disprove their theories. She did nothing, except to get pissed off when a friend pleaded with her "don't you have anything to say to her, about why you fucked up two years of her life?" Janna shot back, "It wasn't two years!" She started saying something else, but then shut herself up.

It's all on video. Maybe I'll post it here on this blog so everyone else can see it too and judge for themselves. It made me sick.

In any case, all I wanted was proof that my friends were wrong, that Janna was really a good and true friend. I did my own research, I talked to investigators, I got in touch with the real Annie Martel, who, despite whatever doctor/patient privileges there are, asserted that she'd never spoken to me via email, ever, and that she knew nobody called Jesse and nobody called Janna Saint James. So while doctor/patient privileges may indeed be in place when it comes to "Jesse" (although I'll be asking my own therapist about that, you betcha) - I don't think it would stop Annie from telling me if she'd ever contacted me, and it certainly wouldn't have stopped her from confirming knowing Janna, since all they were were bestest friends, all the way back to them good ol' John Denver days.

My point here being, the burden of proof at this point is on Janna, not me. The only proof I've been able to dig up is all stacked up against her. Janna lied about her life, she lied about the people in the photographs, she lied about ever being associated with the Associated Press. And now all I get is hostility from her and associated Jannafestations, telling me that I'm the crazy one. This is it, folks. Enough with that crap.

So let's do this. Since I really truly don't care what "Jesse's" real name is, and since I really couldn't give two shits about getting anything material from him, never did, I've got a proposition. Never mind protestations from people who claim to be real but hey sorry, I just can't fucking believe it. Not 'lest I've seen you and touched you and know certain facts to be actual facts. So cyber-ciphers, let it lay. I shan't respond to you anymore.

My proposition: I will provide an impartial witness: lawyer, law enforcement officer, or better yet, how about the editor who wanted to commission the piece on Janna for that NY paper? Journalists never break their word, right? The witness will take an oath not to divulge "Jesse's" real name to anyone, specially not me, ever. They will sit down with the executor of "Jesse's" estate, or with Annie Martel, who will show them certified documentation proving his existence, proof of their own existence, and aforementioned witness will sign an affidavit swearing they saw documentation proving that "Jesse" existed. Then, I'll apologize, take an ad out in whatever publication Janna and "Jesse's" family choose, and I'll delete all these blogs and apologize every day in that space for the rest of the year.

This'll have the added benefit of cancelling out any newspaper pieces being researched and written, since obviously an editor wouldn't want to print something that was untrue, right?

Can't get fairer than that, can I? If nobody wants to even come forward with this compromise, where I gain nothing but proof of his existence so I can put this to bed once and for all and get on with my life, and "Jesse's" "family" and "friends" gain peace of mind and are shut of me forever.

Till then, please excuse me if I continue to think that Janna St. James is a lying, devious sack of shit, and post my opinions about her and the rest of this fuckedupness as and when I see fucking fit.

And until I get this offer, just shut. the. fuck. up. And kish mir im tuchus.

hey, Anonymous assholes

It says a lot that you can't say who you are. Probably because you're one of Janna's many personalities. My bad for forgetting to change the comments settings default. Now, only registered users can comment. So, by all means, Anonymous people, please regurgitate your tripe under your registered names. Otherwise, go fuck yourselves.

I was actually in the process of responding to the comments, point by lame point, but then I realized that it really is just Janna still trying to put forward her case, whether personally or by proxy.

So, really, go fuck yourself(ves). I'm done playing.

so where do I go?

I'm at a place where, my therapist says, I'm reacting the way most victims do. So, please forgive my splenic ventings, but, y'know, Janna's probably been prepared for exposure for some time. I can't believe she didn't know this was coming, so now she's lying in a Procrustean bed of her own making. I'm sure she's as comfortable as she can be given the circumstances. At least she has a vintage quilt to wrap around her knees, the one I bought for Rhys's fifth birthday.

For me, however, this revelation was a roundhouse punch, and I'm still reeling on occasion. So, I've been reshuffling, but with reshuffling comes insight, for this navel-gazer. Ahem.

I've gotta say, the last few weeks have been interesting. I will take stock of my friends' opinions more seriously from here on. And friends, I know I do go on, so you have my permission to tell me to shut the fuck up. I might not listen, but maybe I need to be told more often anyway.

This was gonna go on the other blog, but fakey cakey is the place where fiction goes, and since this story was borne of so much fiction (at least on Janna's end), I wanna put it here.

These last few weeks I've had about a third of Janna's fictional contingent weighing in on what a horrible person I am because I, well, I don't know. She throws the word "vindictive" around as though it's some sort of bad thing. I did label myself vindictive long ago, because I know I can be, when the occasion calls for it. I can be creatively horrible to people I feel deserve horribleness aimed at them. So, I'm horrible because I called Janna a sick cunt in an email I sent her, and in public fora. I'm horrible because my friends who care about me confronted Janna, told her they knew Jesse was fake, that she'd made the whole thing up, and could she pack up her shit and get out of my house. They're the ones who told her not to contact me, that if I wanted a dialogue I would get in touch with her. They're the ones who asked her if she had any evidence, or if she had something to say to me. She refused to offer up anything. But okay, I'm horrible because my friends care, they gave me evidence and she gave me nothing.

So, angry at me why? I did get in touch with her and I did ask her to quit it, and I suppose in a way she has by disappearing from her blog. I do know that "Cakey" has another blog, a private one, so she hasn't discontinued the fantasy at all. But, at this point, whatever.

In the past few weeks, Janna St. James has, either through her imaginary aliases or as herself, usually quoting friends of hers (because Janna's character is always a very sweet, kind, too-trusting soul who'd never hurt a fly [right, Norman?]), spoken about what a horrid person I am. She's thrown up incredibly personal things about me in a revelatory manner, as though I'd never written or spoken about them myself to my friends and various other readers of my blog. Nothing she tossed out about my actions over the past twenty months was an untruth, but nor was it a hidden truth.

Her speculations about my motivations, what I did in my life or plan to do about my life from now on, well now, that's another story. That wacko stuff she cooked up about that, well, that's just straight out of the Julia Moon soap opera chapbook. It's funny, now that I know it's all a lie, I can see the similarities in her scrawlings, or maybe it's just that all her personas are blurring together forming a haphazard crazyquilt (emphasis on the crazy) in a desperate attempt at damage control. And the dissembling about her total lack of knowledge how to put my comments on another blogentry, as though something as simple as cut-and-paste is alien to her, it worked well enough when she'd send me snippets of Adventuregirl's emails to her. Lie piled upon lie piled upon lie, even when unnecessary, she continues to fabricate even her own persona. Kind, benign, totally technologically inept.

Where am I going with this? I'm just trying to get through the hurt and the anger and the, I dunno, gobsmackedness? Apologies for redundancy, you can stop reading anytime you like. I just have nowhere else to put it, and perhaps her reading enough of it will push her toward the doors of the nearest psychiatric facility. Ohwait. She's not reading my blogs. I forgot. Ah well, no hope of her saving herself, then. Perhaps "Alice" or "Cakey" will tell her to read it. Or who knows, maybe "Jesse" will rise from the dead and leave a message for me right here, hell, it's almost Easter, isn't it?

I was going through all the stuff I'd bought for "Jesse" and his family and friends that hadn't had the chance to be sent, sifting things out in to different piles (Goodwill, and foster care facilities for the kid's stuff, fuck knows what I'll be doing with all the pirate shit I bought for Janna that she didn't take with her when she left my house. Anyone want some pirate shit?). I opened the box I'd put together for "Rhys" and was holding onto since its return from Spain in November (USPS gets through, but not FedEx, hmmm). Mozart action figures because he loved "Mokzark," Lush bath bombs because his daddy loved them, little candles with wild animal pictures on them because I knew he liked giraffes, a little Buddha statue, a wobbly rubbery translucent dinosaur ring with flashing LEDs inside it, a smashed Pike's Peak penny because his daddy's most treasured items were smashed coins his deceased brother flattened on the train tracks when they were kids. Other stuff too. And a necklace for his mama, "Krista," a jingle ball lariat, one I'd bought for myself in NYC and reluctantly packed up to send to her instead because her birthday had been in July and July had been a really shit month for all of us.

All of this stuff was packed into a shopping bag that had a picture of a fire truck on it, and when you pressed the edge of the bag, a little red LED flashed and a siren sounded. Because I was worried the bag would go off in transit and that it'd be delayed by Homeland Security, I wrapped the bag and its contents securely, and packed it carefully in a bankers box full of tons of poofy styrofoam peanuts, and scattered craploads of sparkly foil confetti to make it seem more festive. I taped it thoroughly from top to bottom with colorful checkerboard shipping tape, leaving a blank space top center for the address, and wrote HAPPY BIRTHDAY RHYS in English and Spanish in various places on the checkerboard tape.

So, I wore the jingle ball lariat today, my puppy seems to love to chew on the balls (teething), and as puppy was gnawing away happily on my lap, I was thinking of all the stuff I got for everyone, from "Jesse" to Janna to "Cakey" and the rest of the imaginary bunch. It's not the money. Not one of my friends would ever say that it's about the money with me. But the thought, the care, the effort, and the chunks of my heart that went into it, I'm galled by that.

And the way Janna has conducted herself these last few weeks, the shit she's said, the lies she's still persisting in perpetuating, her armchair analysis of my actions (especially the golddigging aspect, since I earn more than I need when I work, and have never looked for a sugar daddy), and I can easily say now that this woman utterly disgusts me, on just about every level there is. She is a bottomless pit of devious psychological tricks.

I believed there was a man, with friends and loved ones around him who often didn't make the right decisions. I believed he had a therapist. I believed he had a son. I believed it all. And all of it was a lie. I'm not sure what it was that was making Janna cry when we were sitting there talking about Jesse in the house at Ojo Caliente, but I was crying at the loss of a beautiful man. A beautiful, fictional man, it turns out. Who were you crying for, Janna? John? Yourself?

So, I'm a big dummy for my wholesale belief in all of this, but the buck stops there for me. Janna Saint James bears the brunt of this, and let's just assume for a moment that I am at least 99-44/100% correct in my assessment of this situation, that Janna manufactured the whole thing. WTF does she have to be angry with me about? Because I found her out and have exposed her in the medium she works in? Yeah, I guess. Because I called her a cunt? Well, like she said, it takes one to know one.

Let's say for a moment I'm wrong about all of it, and that Janna really is protecting "Jesse," or whatever his name really is. So, this guy lied to me about his name and the name of everyone else around him, including the Irish side of his family. Okay. Even first names? Uh, okay. Those are lots of complicated email addresses then.

And it's allegedly because I'm a golddigger because I want something of his that I feel I'm entitled to. Despite being sucked into this drama for almost two years, I'm not a total nimrod. I worked for attorneys for over a decade. There's not a court in the world that would have awarded me anything. I had no claim. I didn't need to know my law to know that. And if I was such a golddigger, why was her first tack to criticize me for having no intention of ever marrying "Jesse?" I got that from "Alice" and "Cakey" and I think from her "daughter" as well (I can't remember, I've dumped the emails off my computer, but it was more than one comment about it). Surely if I was angling for his money, "Jesse" wouldn't have had to implore me to rush my divorce so I could marry him so his "father" wouldn't think he was going to hell. So, the golddigging shit doesn't really wash either. I was hopeful that "Jesse's" wish for a communal living situation at his "grandfather's" ranch would work out, and that I could spend some of my time in Colorado being amongst his friends, but that was a situation that Janna put forward, it was nothing that "Jesse" had spoken about to me. And again, I didn't really expect it to work out, fractious factions making the situation impossible.

To recap this possible reality: I was given proclamations of love by a man who didn't trust me enough to give me his real last name, or the real names of any of his friends or family. His friends all worked in sync and went along with whatever names "Jesse" told them to use, including his six-year-old son. I wanted his money, but obviously not enough to speed the situation along the road to marriage, despite his begging me to hurry up and start divorce proceedings. Nobutwait, what I really am is an internet freak that has set my sights toward destroying Janna. But for what reason? Because she says I don't want to be ignored. Because she says I'm an attention-seeking whore. Well, with that, I am what she made me. I wrote about "Jesse" in my blog because he encouraged me to, it made him go all squishy inside when I'd gush about my boyfriend, and he got a secret thrill at the way it tweaked all those other delusional women who were stalking him and didn't know how to take no for an answer.

I dunno. I would have a hard time believing all that, even if I didn't know I was 100% sure.

So here another nugget. I tracked down Annie Martel, the real Annie. I asked her about being Jesse's therapist and Janna's bestest friend. She don't know a Jesse. Don't know a Janna. No idea what I was talking about. And, I quote, "I don't think I want to know."

Amen. And hallelujah. Smart lady.

Of course, now Janna will just say that Jesse just made up the name of his therapist and that it really was just some other person, some other therapist wife of some other dead popstar. But there was so much backstory involved in so much of it, Janna worked the shit out of it. Too much to change it now to make it believable, at least to me. It probably works with other folks that don't have all that backstory.

So, I have to again reiterate. Janna lied her ass off to me from June 1, 2005 straight through February 20, 2007. And beyond, really, since she's still lying. I have a right to be angry. Vindictive? Damn straight I am. I have a right to be disgusted, at my own gullibility, sure, but mostly at her. I have a right to not feel sympathy for her illness, because she's fucked me up with stress and god-knows-what, for pretty much the full twenty months, and now beyond, as I struggle with the whys and what-the-fucks now. Plus, she's not copping to it, which leads me to conclude that's she's more in her right mind than she'd like me to believe.

It's a toss-up. Crazier than a shithouse rat, or just a miserable, lonely housewife full of soap opera stories and malice to spare? Which would you rather be? I guess her existence is wretched enough, since she's one or the other. That doesn't keep me from being angry, though. Not. By. A. Long. Shot.

I've packed up all the shit "Jesse" and the rest gave me, to get it out of my face. I'm not gonna toss or sell any of it just yet, in case I need it at a later date for legal reasons. If Janna wants to swap it for all the shit I sent "Jesse" and everyone else, I'd do that.

Did I say everything I wanted to say? I dunno. I guess I have for now. I can't promise I won't be back, but I can promise that I hope I won't. This isn't fun for me, you know.

bringing the truth back home

Sigh. You're boring me now. There's nothing of me you can expose that I didn't already. It was all there in my blog, in my conversations with friends, online and off. But that's neither here nor there. This isn't about me. It's about you.

You keep trying to turn it back onto me, but the facts are this: You are the guilty one. You are the one who made all of this up. You are the one who manufactured personas. You manufactured Jesse. You manufactured Alice. You manufactured Annie. You manufactured Cakey. You manufactured Pavlo. You manufactured Rhys. And more. Either alone, or with help. And if alone, well, eeeeeew is all I have to say, and get yourself a fucking day job.

By the way, I know you've been reading my blog. In fact, not only reading it, but coming back to it over and over with alarming frequency.

"Jesse's" mental illness was explained to me, and he seemed like a kind man beset upon by society's ills, who only wanted to live his life but was endlessly persecuted in circumstances scenarios beyond his control. Too bad, Janna. In another life you could have been a writer.

That mental illness I have tolerance for because it's someone who recognizes their problem and is trying against all odds to overcome it. The kind of mental illness that is called Munchausen's by Internet (or something, I can't remember what my friend called it), that I have less tolerance for, because especially in your case, boy oh boy, you don't recognize your problem, and you're not trying to overcome jack shit.

However, I think I've been relatively kind to you up till now. I've given you the chance to fess up before I took legal action, just because I feel like I deserve answers.

You want questions, here are some questions: Who are the people in the pictures, besides your husband and your daughter? Who is Julia? Who is Rhys? Who is Krista? Who is Pavlo? Were you saying, obliquely as usual, that you got all those photos from Google Images? And yeah, I'm kicking myself because I taught "Jesse" how to use it. Who received the package I sent to Rhys in Spain? Who is wearing all that movie merchandise I spent oodles on for Jesse and his friends and family? Most importantly, why the fuck did you do this? Was it just a trifle that went out of control? Is that why "Jesse" kept trying to drive me away? Is that why you would push me to break up with him at any small sign of doubt in my mind?

Oh, and were you chuckling to yourself while watching Notes On A Scandal because you realized how small-change Dame Judi's character was compared to you?

So, still, because I was being kind to a nutcase, because I didn't want you embarrassed publicly in national newspapers, I quashed an investigative piece in a NYC newspaper, where they were going to do a story on this whole thing, printing your full name, location, and your photo. You may have told me you worked at AP, but you know I know writers. You've met some of them. Maybe it's not too late to tell them to go ahead with it, because I can't make you go the fuck away, and you're clearly not going to be explaining anything to me anytime soon.

All I wanted was for you to leave me alone, which means disappear from my radar, which means close down your stupid blog and stop pretending that Jesse exists and that everything you told me was true, when really little of it was/is, even about yourself. But you have to keep dithering on about it, as though you were betrayed by my sense of betrayal in all this.

I would really like you to see a psychiatrist, but I don't think any lawyer in the world would take my case on for simply banning you from possessing a computer in your house, giving me a public apology/explanation, and serious mental counseling, so I think it will have to come down to suing you for money.

Brace yourself. I really hope your family and friends do know about this.

And, by the way, if it turns out I'm wrong about all this and you provide law enforcement with a certified copy of Jesse's death certificate and other proof, such as full names and contact details of all the other players involved and they corroborate your story, I'll apologize publicly. But the phrase containing the words "snowball" and "hell" come to mind.

Oh, one more thing. I never said I wasn't a cunt.

goddamnit

So, people I've never spoken to before who've written to me, apologies, but I just can't write back. Just. can't. do. it.

It's beyond disconcerting to realize how distrustful I am of everyone now, guess I've got that demented cunt to blame.

Do I sound hostile? Well, wouldn't you be if you realized that a piece of you you took for granted was suddenly disappeared? Like losing a finger, say, or maybe even the whole hand. My trust in people is gone gone gone. Hostile, yeah. Even, or maybe especially, knowing the reason why. Who knows what else will go missing? I can't fucking wait.

So, those of you who are real, apologies, but I'll bet you're the ones who'll understand. The ones who aren't, the ones who are Janna Saint James, the sick twist who changed me, or her friends or known associates, please go fuck yourself. Repeatedly. I've decided I don't believe for a second that any of her local friends or family know about her twisted double life, or that she's getting help. I think she's still reading this blog and still living her fucked up chupacabra life. Oh, and thanks for the postcard from Australia, "Aidan." Nice fucking touch, asshole. Get off on it while you can, Esmerelda, because I'm getting myself gone from this fucking internets, and you'll be alone on your fucking mythical prairies with your fucking moon and your fucking prairie dogs and your fucking dulce fucking suenos. And you can just shit yourself till the statute of fucking limitations runs out on this, you oblique hypocritical bitch, because I just ain't made up my mind about legal action yet.

So fucking there.