Happy holidays to all you folks who've followed this crap and who continue to follow it (even you concern trolls and other assorted douchebags - hey, every family has its dysfunctional assholes, right?). You've made me realize how important it is to speak out.
This past year, we moved from Civil Court to the Supreme Court. Who knows what the next year will bring? There were no reports on any new hijinks brought forth by Janna, but we learned a bit more about ancient ones that she assumed were all forgotten, or at least forgiven. Odd how many of Janna's actions throughout her adult life have been unforgivable, and how many people who were deceived by her are happy to tell me their stories.
It's been a long journey from Janet Hopper to Janna Priggie, but she hasn't traveled very far.
Have a great and safe holiday, readers.
As for Janna, I'll speak for the dozens of women you've tormented over five decades: I hope you get coal in your stocking, and please go fuck yourself.
Paula
Showing posts with label venting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label venting. Show all posts
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Friday, April 2, 2010
and another thing
...you wanna get into this, Janna?
Lookit what folks stumbled upon.
Second one down. Four days before you posted the exact same thing on your own Twitter account. Don't bother deleting it, it's already been saved for posterity. Duh.
You wanna know what else folks found? You wanna see more?
If not, then G.O. A.W.A.Y. You lost this one.
P.S. Congratulations on the uni-chin, if you're not lying about that too. What're you down to now, have you hit the 200 lb mark yet? And clearly whatever ails you ain't keeping you from using Twitter an awful lot to make a half-assed attempt to defend yourself, so duping people on the Johnny Weir board and Twitter and Facebook with your sad sack story is just child's play to you (just cut and paste and change the name from Dan to Jesse to Denali). And you're still making/selling your art glass trinkets on Etsy, as ArchipelagoArts and janarchy, hell, you're even entering contests on blogs for people to win your fucking trinkets, so, you can't be that blind.
You're losing it, chica. Call a waaaaahmbulance.
P.S. When you talk about "your" tweets, you might want to double check that it was "Janet Wilder" and not the REAL you who said something before you assert that the real you would never say that. The Christopher Walken comment, f'rinstance. QED. You can't even keep your selves straight. Dipshit.
P.P.S. The point of you pretending to be someone else is that "they" can do things that you cannot. Like just about anything, so of course all the things they say they do you cannot do. Bein' my point.
P.P.P.S. Didn't even realize you had a Twitter account in your real name till just an hour ago, though. It probably only popped up on Google search now because you're posting like fuck.
Lookit what folks stumbled upon.
Second one down. Four days before you posted the exact same thing on your own Twitter account. Don't bother deleting it, it's already been saved for posterity. Duh.
You wanna know what else folks found? You wanna see more?
If not, then G.O. A.W.A.Y. You lost this one.
P.S. Congratulations on the uni-chin, if you're not lying about that too. What're you down to now, have you hit the 200 lb mark yet? And clearly whatever ails you ain't keeping you from using Twitter an awful lot to make a half-assed attempt to defend yourself, so duping people on the Johnny Weir board and Twitter and Facebook with your sad sack story is just child's play to you (just cut and paste and change the name from Dan to Jesse to Denali). And you're still making/selling your art glass trinkets on Etsy, as ArchipelagoArts and janarchy, hell, you're even entering contests on blogs for people to win your fucking trinkets, so, you can't be that blind.
You're losing it, chica. Call a waaaaahmbulance.
P.S. When you talk about "your" tweets, you might want to double check that it was "Janet Wilder" and not the REAL you who said something before you assert that the real you would never say that. The Christopher Walken comment, f'rinstance. QED. You can't even keep your selves straight. Dipshit.
P.P.S. The point of you pretending to be someone else is that "they" can do things that you cannot. Like just about anything, so of course all the things they say they do you cannot do. Bein' my point.
P.P.P.S. Didn't even realize you had a Twitter account in your real name till just an hour ago, though. It probably only popped up on Google search now because you're posting like fuck.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
...what really kills me...
It's been three years since my dog died. Which means three years since "Jesse" died. And nearly three since Janna St. James Priggie's scam was exposed. I should be clearer and point out that the scam she pulled on ME was exposed. The earlier scams, the one she pulled on the Fogelberg message board folks (not to mention what she did to Anastasia), and the ones she pulled even earlier than that, she was exposed by her victims, too. Luckily for her, though, up till she pwned me, her victims tried simple confrontation, involving various members of her family over the years, and exposure on a small scale, within their group. Clearly didn't work, wouldn't you say? Her entire immediate family knows what she does, has been doing, for decades now. Decades. I'll bet even my lawsuit hasn't made her put the bullshit brakes on.
This crazy lady has been doing this shit to people for AT LEAST THIRTY YEARS. Let that sink in a minute. Janna Saint James has been pretending to know/date people in bands since the birth of disco. What was happening three decades ago? The biggest band in the world was the fucking Bee Gees, and probably the biggest movie star was John Travolta. Ironically, Ted Bundy had finally been captured in Florida. It was Jimmy Carter's first year in the White House. The Sex Pistols were touring. Queen Noor of Jordan had just become Queen Noor of Jordan. Bebe Buell hadn't birthed Liv Tyler. Steve Perry hadn't even joined Journey yet, people! They were still doing nuclear testing in Nevada. Probably many of you reading this hadn't even been born at this point. The internet hadn't even been invented.
Point being, that was a long time ago. Long time. And for all I know, she's been doing it for even longer than that. If she was, I'm sure I'll be hearing from more victims eventually. She didn't need the internet to screw with people's heads - she used baldfaced lies face-to-face with people, forged letters, but the same basic underlying bullshit: mental illness, addictions, firemen, horses, blahdeblah. But the internet, well now, it's so much easier for Janna to pretend to be someone else, in fact, not only someone else, but someone elseS, many many people all at once, and to more than one targeted victim at a time. I'm also not stupid enough to think that she stopped after I popped her Jesse bubble, so no doubt there have been more after me, and although I wish it were otherwise, I'm sure I'll be hearing from them too, eventually.
So, for any browsers that are curious if the person they met online is real, google Munchausen's by Internet and see if that cancer-riddled, bipolar, abuse victim whose gentle soul always seems to rise above their life's challenges exhibits any of the listed traits. Do they flip out when you even vaguely suggest that they might not be everything they say they are? Do they put you on the defensive for even daring to think such a thing?
Look for the red flags, folks. Yes, that person might be the light of your life, you might eventually hook up in the real world, and you will be everything and more to each other. But that person also might be Janna Hopper St. James Saint James Priggie, an obese lunatic senior citizen who is a career emotional vampire who has found her ultimate weapon, the internet, and is wallowing in it like the depraved pig she is.
I think about my beloved dog, who, in the twilight of his years, was deprived of my attention because Janna played her headfuck with me. I will have to live with that guilt always, that I didn't give my pup that extra scritch because I was talking "Jesse" down from one of his many bipolar freakouts. It seems like a small thing, but it's not. I've talked about the squandering of time before, and I cannot stress enough: YOU WILL NOT GET THAT TIME BACK. EVER. So make sure it's worth it. At least make sure this person really truly exists. It may seem embarrassing to have to ask, but in this day and age, would you have sex with someone in the real world without seeing a current HIV test in the negative? Why give someone your valuable time, a chunk of your life, without some sort of hard proof that they really are who they say they are?
Oh, and I'm still doing fine. Thanks for asking.
This crazy lady has been doing this shit to people for AT LEAST THIRTY YEARS. Let that sink in a minute. Janna Saint James has been pretending to know/date people in bands since the birth of disco. What was happening three decades ago? The biggest band in the world was the fucking Bee Gees, and probably the biggest movie star was John Travolta. Ironically, Ted Bundy had finally been captured in Florida. It was Jimmy Carter's first year in the White House. The Sex Pistols were touring. Queen Noor of Jordan had just become Queen Noor of Jordan. Bebe Buell hadn't birthed Liv Tyler. Steve Perry hadn't even joined Journey yet, people! They were still doing nuclear testing in Nevada. Probably many of you reading this hadn't even been born at this point. The internet hadn't even been invented.
Point being, that was a long time ago. Long time. And for all I know, she's been doing it for even longer than that. If she was, I'm sure I'll be hearing from more victims eventually. She didn't need the internet to screw with people's heads - she used baldfaced lies face-to-face with people, forged letters, but the same basic underlying bullshit: mental illness, addictions, firemen, horses, blahdeblah. But the internet, well now, it's so much easier for Janna to pretend to be someone else, in fact, not only someone else, but someone elseS, many many people all at once, and to more than one targeted victim at a time. I'm also not stupid enough to think that she stopped after I popped her Jesse bubble, so no doubt there have been more after me, and although I wish it were otherwise, I'm sure I'll be hearing from them too, eventually.
So, for any browsers that are curious if the person they met online is real, google Munchausen's by Internet and see if that cancer-riddled, bipolar, abuse victim whose gentle soul always seems to rise above their life's challenges exhibits any of the listed traits. Do they flip out when you even vaguely suggest that they might not be everything they say they are? Do they put you on the defensive for even daring to think such a thing?
Look for the red flags, folks. Yes, that person might be the light of your life, you might eventually hook up in the real world, and you will be everything and more to each other. But that person also might be Janna Hopper St. James Saint James Priggie, an obese lunatic senior citizen who is a career emotional vampire who has found her ultimate weapon, the internet, and is wallowing in it like the depraved pig she is.
I think about my beloved dog, who, in the twilight of his years, was deprived of my attention because Janna played her headfuck with me. I will have to live with that guilt always, that I didn't give my pup that extra scritch because I was talking "Jesse" down from one of his many bipolar freakouts. It seems like a small thing, but it's not. I've talked about the squandering of time before, and I cannot stress enough: YOU WILL NOT GET THAT TIME BACK. EVER. So make sure it's worth it. At least make sure this person really truly exists. It may seem embarrassing to have to ask, but in this day and age, would you have sex with someone in the real world without seeing a current HIV test in the negative? Why give someone your valuable time, a chunk of your life, without some sort of hard proof that they really are who they say they are?
Oh, and I'm still doing fine. Thanks for asking.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
cash cow
Today I'm puzzled by people who seem to think I'm making money off this somehow - not sure how I'd be doing that. So, for the record, I didn't see a penny for that LA Weekly article, I'm not likely to see a penny should a movie be made of this (but I doubt it will). I didn't even go out of my way to make sure my friends saw the article -- a lot of them did, and stumbled upon this blog through Googling Janna's name (along with the other 25,687 people who've hit it this week). If I really wanted to make a buck, I'd be mentioning my business ventures here (it's cool stuff, you'd like it, oh well).
But. That. Isn't. What. It's. About.
It's about Janna St. James and her demented way of whiling away the hours in her sorry, tedious, unfulfilling life in Batavia, Illinois.
Which is why I posted a link to her trinket site a few days back. Please. Buy something from her. The trinkets are cute. Bitch needs to keep busy. It could be your ten bucks that keeps her from writing a bullshit email to the next Audrey.
But. That. Isn't. What. It's. About.
It's about Janna St. James and her demented way of whiling away the hours in her sorry, tedious, unfulfilling life in Batavia, Illinois.
Which is why I posted a link to her trinket site a few days back. Please. Buy something from her. The trinkets are cute. Bitch needs to keep busy. It could be your ten bucks that keeps her from writing a bullshit email to the next Audrey.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
much LOLZ were had by all
1. No, Josh does not want to fuck me. He's a famousass screenwriter, who has his pick of many lithe leggy gals, but focuses on one, who ain't me.
2. Enough with the fucking panties already. And people think I'm weird. The amount of talk and obsession that's going on around the internets about the panty-sniffing is ludicrous, and the ones that are pretending to be inteleckshul while pontificating are the funniest, and most telling. Oooooer, missus, we do love a bit of panty-sniffing, don't we? For the record: the articles of clothing we swapped were favorite shirts - I sent "Jesse" an old sweatshirt of mine so beat up the sleeves were shredded, and he sent me an old Tommy Hilfiger green cotton knit pullover and a really ugly Banana Republic shirt. It was more for sentimentality and comfort than for sniffing, although fuck knows what Janna did with mine. I didn't sniff "Jesse's" shirts, although I did wear the green one to bed and cried all over it the night he shot himself, and the night he died. I also did send "Jesse" washed but new American Apparel boyshorts, as a joke, so he could open the package in front of his ex-wife "Krista," who was trying to get back together with him, we thought it'd drive her off for sure. Ohyeah, and I also sent "Jesse" a pair of brand new copper lame' boyshorts, which he allegedly wore under his alleged jeans when he did a gig with his friend "Cakey's" alleged band. I do not now, nor have I ever, possessed a pair of BVDs or other male undergarments that purportedly belonged to "Jesse Jubilee James," for the purpose of sniffing or other prurient acts. I can't speak for Janna. Alles klar?
Sheesh.
2. Enough with the fucking panties already. And people think I'm weird. The amount of talk and obsession that's going on around the internets about the panty-sniffing is ludicrous, and the ones that are pretending to be inteleckshul while pontificating are the funniest, and most telling. Oooooer, missus, we do love a bit of panty-sniffing, don't we? For the record: the articles of clothing we swapped were favorite shirts - I sent "Jesse" an old sweatshirt of mine so beat up the sleeves were shredded, and he sent me an old Tommy Hilfiger green cotton knit pullover and a really ugly Banana Republic shirt. It was more for sentimentality and comfort than for sniffing, although fuck knows what Janna did with mine. I didn't sniff "Jesse's" shirts, although I did wear the green one to bed and cried all over it the night he shot himself, and the night he died. I also did send "Jesse" washed but new American Apparel boyshorts, as a joke, so he could open the package in front of his ex-wife "Krista," who was trying to get back together with him, we thought it'd drive her off for sure. Ohyeah, and I also sent "Jesse" a pair of brand new copper lame' boyshorts, which he allegedly wore under his alleged jeans when he did a gig with his friend "Cakey's" alleged band. I do not now, nor have I ever, possessed a pair of BVDs or other male undergarments that purportedly belonged to "Jesse Jubilee James," for the purpose of sniffing or other prurient acts. I can't speak for Janna. Alles klar?
Sheesh.
Monday, October 15, 2007
biting the hand that doesn't feed me
I've been doing a lot of reading, in between having a life. Spending too much time thinking about this again, at least more time than I'd like to be spending. Score twentyzillion for Janna Saint James. But fuck me, this shit's been dredged up again, and it is a part of my life, unfortunate though it may be, and when you hear from friends (and enemies) about the fucking article, it's like the scab's been picked raw.
It's interesting to read what complete strangers have to say about this: it's real, it's fake, "Jesse" exists but faked his own death and Janna is covering for him (hey, whose soap opera is this?), it's Janna's fault, it's my fault, it's society's fault, it's Josh's fault, it's the internet's fault (I'm sure a tighty righty somewhere will blame Al Gore for this). Whatevs. Opinions are like assholes, remember? Armchair analysts will pontificate till the llamas come home (what's the internet obsession with llamas, anyway? someone please to explain).
I've covered this before, but let's assume "Jesse" is real, some guy friend of Janna's who wanted to extricate himself from this "relationship" we had. Why was he imploring me to get a divorce right up until three days before he croaked? Okay, he's mentally unbalanced, who knows what a bipolar person is likely to do, right? But faking a death? Janna and his "ex-wife" and "friends" and "therapist" and six-year old "SON" all still talking to me for seven months afterward, all pretending "Jesse" is dead? Are they ALL insane? Janna going on a VACATION with me on "Jesse's" birthday and crying real tears in front of me, missing him? Uh, okay, sure. Contributing to a tribute blog for the not-really-dead man in their midst? Janna's coming to LA to visit me? Okay, they're all fucking nuts. But Janna was their frontman, then, by her choice, and even if this is the case it still ain't goddamned acceptable.
And why did "Jesse's" sister "Alice" send me that photo of "Jesse" and "Rhys" that was titled JohnJessicaVista.jpg? John was Janna's deceased husband, Jessica her daughter. "Alice" despised Janna, what the fuck would she be doing with a 25-year-old photo of Janna's first husband and baby? And why did they look EXACTLY like the other pictures I'd seen up to that point of "Jesse" and "Rhys?" (I dunno, but I'll bet Janna will have a faaaabulous explanation for that!) So let's go with Janna's future explanation about how she allowed "Jesse" to use photos of her dead husband and pretend they were him, and that she and "Alice" are really thick as thieves, or that she was at "Jesse's" ranch and left that photo in their scanner. Let's instead turn to things that cain't lie. Technology. Funny what looking at the headers of the eleventy-billion emails turned up when I had geeks who could interpret all of that for me. Amazing that emails from "Jesse's" friend "Pavlo" in Argentina, his brother "Aidan" (I am getting SO fucking tired of quotation marks) in goddamned Africa, his sister "Branna" in Eire, emails from "Jesse" in Paki-fucking-stan, all bounced from IP addresses originating in -- say it with me, kiddies -- Illinois. Christ, there was an email from "Jesse" in Colorado mere minutes before I got one from Janna in Batavia, and they had the SAME. EXACT. HEADER. That's some fucking coinkydink, wouldn't you say? So, maybe "Jesse" did exist, and all his friends and family exist, and maybe they all live in Batavia, Illinois. Peyton Place, watch the fuck out, you've got some seriousass competition. But hey, maybe you're right. Maybe "Jesse" just wanted to be shut of me. I guess some folks just don't know how to say goodbye.
Back to the matter at hand. Those armchair analysts.
What I really find astonishing is how many people seem to believe the article is accurate, and whether or not they criticize me for being either stupid, in denial, delusional, or all of the above, they seem to think that I enjoy playing the victim, that I'm getting off on this because of this blog, because I'm outlining what Janna St. James did to me in detail (i.e. "airing [my] dirty laundry", as someone out there on the internuts said). Now, let me get this straight, before I put you in Bill O'Reilly's corner. You think I enjoy this? You think I'm not sick to the eyeballs of all this crap? You think I don't have a moment (nay, many moments) every day where I just want to pull this whole fucking shit festival off the interwebs? You rationalize that my damage was negligible, she didn't do that much to me, aside from fuck with my head, screw up my capacity to do my job to my best ability, make me sick with grief for months, and accept thousands of dollars worth of gifts under extremely false pretenses? 'Scuse me, but what's your fucking definition of damage? You think I should just chalk it up to experience, shut the fuck up and slink away and let Janna do what she thinks she does best, give other people not as smart as any of you (no sirreeeeee) headfuck after headfuck, cajole gifts and love out of people until she drops dead, and perhaps beyond, depending on how many people (if any) are part of her coterie?
Who the FUCK are you people? Are you the same people who think if a woman dresses provocatively and gets raped that she was asking for it? So, because I was trusting, because I just assumed that the guy I was talking to on the phone for a year (whose phone number I had), his sister who I also talked to (whose phone number I also had), his many friends, his ex-wife, his child, his therapist, and the bitch Janna, who was real, to add to the confusion, because I believed all that and was taken for a seriousass ride, because I was strafed and humiliated and headfucked to the nth degree, I should at least have the dignity to keep my anger and pain to myself? It's fucknuts like you who keep victims from stepping into the light and shouting at the top of their lungs I AM AS MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE. (apologies to the late Messrs. Chayefsky and Finch)
I will not go gentle into this good night. FUCK no. I don't neeeeed your sympathy. I don't want it. What I do want is for Janna St. James to nip it in the fucking bud, and for any other online scumbags to have second thoughts before running a scam on someone, because some of us will fight back. Janna St. James will find it fucking difficult to pull this shit on anyone else, if I have anything to say about it. Victims should have a voice, and they should goddamned well not be afraid to use it.
It's interesting to read what complete strangers have to say about this: it's real, it's fake, "Jesse" exists but faked his own death and Janna is covering for him (hey, whose soap opera is this?), it's Janna's fault, it's my fault, it's society's fault, it's Josh's fault, it's the internet's fault (I'm sure a tighty righty somewhere will blame Al Gore for this). Whatevs. Opinions are like assholes, remember? Armchair analysts will pontificate till the llamas come home (what's the internet obsession with llamas, anyway? someone please to explain).
I've covered this before, but let's assume "Jesse" is real, some guy friend of Janna's who wanted to extricate himself from this "relationship" we had. Why was he imploring me to get a divorce right up until three days before he croaked? Okay, he's mentally unbalanced, who knows what a bipolar person is likely to do, right? But faking a death? Janna and his "ex-wife" and "friends" and "therapist" and six-year old "SON" all still talking to me for seven months afterward, all pretending "Jesse" is dead? Are they ALL insane? Janna going on a VACATION with me on "Jesse's" birthday and crying real tears in front of me, missing him? Uh, okay, sure. Contributing to a tribute blog for the not-really-dead man in their midst? Janna's coming to LA to visit me? Okay, they're all fucking nuts. But Janna was their frontman, then, by her choice, and even if this is the case it still ain't goddamned acceptable.
And why did "Jesse's" sister "Alice" send me that photo of "Jesse" and "Rhys" that was titled JohnJessicaVista.jpg? John was Janna's deceased husband, Jessica her daughter. "Alice" despised Janna, what the fuck would she be doing with a 25-year-old photo of Janna's first husband and baby? And why did they look EXACTLY like the other pictures I'd seen up to that point of "Jesse" and "Rhys?" (I dunno, but I'll bet Janna will have a faaaabulous explanation for that!) So let's go with Janna's future explanation about how she allowed "Jesse" to use photos of her dead husband and pretend they were him, and that she and "Alice" are really thick as thieves, or that she was at "Jesse's" ranch and left that photo in their scanner. Let's instead turn to things that cain't lie. Technology. Funny what looking at the headers of the eleventy-billion emails turned up when I had geeks who could interpret all of that for me. Amazing that emails from "Jesse's" friend "Pavlo" in Argentina, his brother "Aidan" (I am getting SO fucking tired of quotation marks) in goddamned Africa, his sister "Branna" in Eire, emails from "Jesse" in Paki-fucking-stan, all bounced from IP addresses originating in -- say it with me, kiddies -- Illinois. Christ, there was an email from "Jesse" in Colorado mere minutes before I got one from Janna in Batavia, and they had the SAME. EXACT. HEADER. That's some fucking coinkydink, wouldn't you say? So, maybe "Jesse" did exist, and all his friends and family exist, and maybe they all live in Batavia, Illinois. Peyton Place, watch the fuck out, you've got some seriousass competition. But hey, maybe you're right. Maybe "Jesse" just wanted to be shut of me. I guess some folks just don't know how to say goodbye.
Back to the matter at hand. Those armchair analysts.
What I really find astonishing is how many people seem to believe the article is accurate, and whether or not they criticize me for being either stupid, in denial, delusional, or all of the above, they seem to think that I enjoy playing the victim, that I'm getting off on this because of this blog, because I'm outlining what Janna St. James did to me in detail (i.e. "airing [my] dirty laundry", as someone out there on the internuts said). Now, let me get this straight, before I put you in Bill O'Reilly's corner. You think I enjoy this? You think I'm not sick to the eyeballs of all this crap? You think I don't have a moment (nay, many moments) every day where I just want to pull this whole fucking shit festival off the interwebs? You rationalize that my damage was negligible, she didn't do that much to me, aside from fuck with my head, screw up my capacity to do my job to my best ability, make me sick with grief for months, and accept thousands of dollars worth of gifts under extremely false pretenses? 'Scuse me, but what's your fucking definition of damage? You think I should just chalk it up to experience, shut the fuck up and slink away and let Janna do what she thinks she does best, give other people not as smart as any of you (no sirreeeeee) headfuck after headfuck, cajole gifts and love out of people until she drops dead, and perhaps beyond, depending on how many people (if any) are part of her coterie?
Who the FUCK are you people? Are you the same people who think if a woman dresses provocatively and gets raped that she was asking for it? So, because I was trusting, because I just assumed that the guy I was talking to on the phone for a year (whose phone number I had), his sister who I also talked to (whose phone number I also had), his many friends, his ex-wife, his child, his therapist, and the bitch Janna, who was real, to add to the confusion, because I believed all that and was taken for a seriousass ride, because I was strafed and humiliated and headfucked to the nth degree, I should at least have the dignity to keep my anger and pain to myself? It's fucknuts like you who keep victims from stepping into the light and shouting at the top of their lungs I AM AS MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE. (apologies to the late Messrs. Chayefsky and Finch)
I will not go gentle into this good night. FUCK no. I don't neeeeed your sympathy. I don't want it. What I do want is for Janna St. James to nip it in the fucking bud, and for any other online scumbags to have second thoughts before running a scam on someone, because some of us will fight back. Janna St. James will find it fucking difficult to pull this shit on anyone else, if I have anything to say about it. Victims should have a voice, and they should goddamned well not be afraid to use it.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
sorry, "Q"
I don't communicate off-line with people I don't know, especially with free, easily-gettable gmail accounts and a brand-spanking-new Blogger profile. I know how you got the information.
But nobody knows where I am NOW. Nobody knows who I'm with NOW. Nobody knows what I'm doing NOW. And clearly, or you would have emailed me, nobody knows my email address NOW.
I would say that even if that information was out there in the ether, that only someone who had freakish tendencies would trace things as you have, and do what with them, exactly? Since February, Janna has bandied my name about and threatened and bullied me with all kinds of shit under her name, the names of "Jesse's" friends and family, and other random sock puppets. So fucking what? I'm not the one who committed a crime, unless extreme gullibility is a crime. Janna St. James pretended to be more than a dozen people, used the US Mail to commit fraud, milked me for gifts, used other people's photos, and impersonated people who really do exist. I just believed her lies and was a headwreck for nearly two years. In fact, let's say for more than two years, because the aftermath was tres headwreck-y.
Nothing more can be done to me than has already been done. I have nothing to hide, really, and only keep on the downlow now because of Janna's wackadoodle nature. Who I am really doesn't matter, because I'm discovering there are thousands of Audreys out there, most of who allow the Janna St. Jameses of the world to get away with their shit, the way that fine doctor you cite is now. If this all complicates things for Janna Saint James and keeps her from perpetuating fraud on other unsuspecting people, or even just makes it more difficult for her to commit fraud, then as our Fearless Leader says, mission accomplished.
So, again, thanks but no thanks, "Q." If that is your real name.
But nobody knows where I am NOW. Nobody knows who I'm with NOW. Nobody knows what I'm doing NOW. And clearly, or you would have emailed me, nobody knows my email address NOW.
I would say that even if that information was out there in the ether, that only someone who had freakish tendencies would trace things as you have, and do what with them, exactly? Since February, Janna has bandied my name about and threatened and bullied me with all kinds of shit under her name, the names of "Jesse's" friends and family, and other random sock puppets. So fucking what? I'm not the one who committed a crime, unless extreme gullibility is a crime. Janna St. James pretended to be more than a dozen people, used the US Mail to commit fraud, milked me for gifts, used other people's photos, and impersonated people who really do exist. I just believed her lies and was a headwreck for nearly two years. In fact, let's say for more than two years, because the aftermath was tres headwreck-y.
Nothing more can be done to me than has already been done. I have nothing to hide, really, and only keep on the downlow now because of Janna's wackadoodle nature. Who I am really doesn't matter, because I'm discovering there are thousands of Audreys out there, most of who allow the Janna St. Jameses of the world to get away with their shit, the way that fine doctor you cite is now. If this all complicates things for Janna Saint James and keeps her from perpetuating fraud on other unsuspecting people, or even just makes it more difficult for her to commit fraud, then as our Fearless Leader says, mission accomplished.
So, again, thanks but no thanks, "Q." If that is your real name.
Friday, October 12, 2007
talk about surreal
It's kind of -- well, fun is probably not the right word -- let's use educational, reading what other people think of the article, and of me.
How could I be so stupid? So gullible? So easily deceived? I ask myself that often. I am not any of those things, usually. Was I lonely? I guess I was, a bit, but any of my friends would tell you I didn't habitually trawl for love-n-stuff on the internets, or ever, really, for that matter. Even Josh would have to admit that. This "Jesse" spooled it out slow-ish, and we started out friends. Yeah, he sounded too good to believe, except for the crazy part, and the PTSD that he got from being traded as a sex toy for four years to pedophile drug dealers by his molesting hippie junkie dad behind his chilly feminist lecturer mother's back. Too good to believe except for the older brother who shot himself the first night Jesse was raped by the dealers, the night his father hooked him on heroin to help him deal with the pain. Big brother couldn't deal with not being able to protect his younger sibling, and so offed hisownself. "Jesse" may have been a journalist/fireman who loved yoga, but he was damaged. Janna had done her homework on me before "Jesse" ever made an appearance, so she knew what would prick up my ears (fnar).
Janna made a slurry of fact and fiction, hard to tell even now through the sludge how much of it had actually happened to her. I thought for sure that even though Annie Martel might not have been "Jesse's" therapist, that she must have at least known Janna from back in the John Denver days, because Janna had so many stories about them. I spoke to "Jesse" on the phone often, but he was always whispery and hoarse, because he was shy and didn't talk much in his 3D life, so his vocal cords were weak, but jesus, could he write. Now, I'm sure we all know people like that, folks who come alive in type but are pretty inept in person. "Jesse" and his family had been exposed to an internet freak who'd been stalking Janna trying to get close to Dan Fogelberg, and had gone as far as to impersonate her on the Dan Fogelberg boards and to telephone her home to freak out her daughter. "Jesse's" sister made him promise never to expose them to people like that again, so he (and Janna) were very leery of giving out any personal details to people they didn't really know. These are some of the backstories I was given, Janna covering her ass.
It would take pages and pages to explain how I got sucked in (operative word with my 20:20 hindsight being suck, of course) for as long as I did, but here are the main points in a nutshell. I was committed to a project with 100-hour workweeks for the entire year I knew "Jesse." I did try to fly to Denver early on in the "relationship" to see him, but his dog Wrinkle had just died, his grandmother was conveniently dying, and it would have been inappropriate for me to be there during such a tense time for the family. I had bought a plane ticket and was on my way to the airport when "Jesse" called and implored me not to come to Denver. He wanted our first meeting to be perfect, he was beset by anxiety, blah blah blah. We made other plans, but then of course after a weird buildup over several weeks, he shot himself and then was in a psychiatric hospital where only family and his therapist could visit. Then, of course, I couldn't cope with "Jesse's" nuttiness (he'd been diagnosed as bipolar) and we stopped talking for a while, although I was still communicating with Janna, because we'd become friendly.
Confused yet? Bored? Sorry. It's so convoluted.
We picked up again and made other plans, which were scuppered because "Jesse's" mother revealed that his father wasn't really his father, so the fact that he'd been molested by this man as a child wasn't so bad because it wasn't incest. "Jesse" then had to go on a quest for his real father, who was Irish, and a repressed Catholic, and gay, and repenting for sinning against the Scriptures (for fathering a child with a woman whose husband it was he really wanted to have sex with, being a hypocrite and marrying and fathering two more children, and of course the gay thing) by doing charity work for Concern in war- and disaster-torn nations worldwide. So "Jesse" went to Pakistan against his sister's orders, and she, being his legal guardian (since he'd OD'd after 9/11, but hey, that's another story) went to the courts so they would send authorities to pick him up at the airport when he came back and commit him for flagrantly disobeying her. There went that weekend we were supposed to meet in Laguna Beach. It was hardly ever "Jesse" canceling things, it was circumstances.
And "Jesse's" real father's name? Davian Blaine. Yes, dear readers, I know. But I was already in so deep there was no way I suspected "Jesse" wasn't real, as outlandish as that all sounded. I'd been having email conversations with other friends of his, his ex-wife and other friends of his had posted on his blog, I'd seen pictures of his friends and ex-wife and son, his sister's house and his llamas. Which, of course, turned out to be Dan Fogelberg's house and llamas.
I finished my taxing job after a year, prepared to make a move so we could try each other on. And then, well, "Jesse" died. And Janna was utterly lovely to me. Of course, most of "Jesse's" other friends were quite horrible to me, because they never understood why he was interested in me in the first place, and constantly criticized me for not making more of an effort to be with him. But Janna was always a comfort, telling me stories, and encouraging me to set up the tribute blog. I was emailing with "Jesse's" son, who was going to spend time in Spain. I had an address. I was emailing with "Jesse's" ex-wife and his best friend Cakey. And Annie Martel, "Jesse's" therapist. I met Janna, and she was real, we spent a few days together driving around Colorado and New Mexico, while she showed me some of "Jesse's" favorite places. She cried real tears when talking with me about "Jesse" on his birthday. I saw them. Seven months passed between "Jesse's" death and Janna's visit to my house, and the now much-viewed confrontation.
Now, I've known people with strangeass names, and for the offspring of hippie parents, Jesse Jubilee James isn't totally off the wall. His other siblings had stupid names too. And hey, should Sandra Bullock be worried because she's married to some guy called Jesse James? [editor's hindsight note: why yes, yes, Sandra should] I've met Moon Unit Zappa, for fuck's sake. So, that really didn't raise any alarms, 'specially since "Jesse" was pretty goddamned embarrassed about it, the way any real person with fucked parents would be. I've known people who seem to be disaster magnets - I lived with a girl called Laura, and another called Tammy back in the 80s who were precisely that, so that was believable also. The weird life, well, shit, I've had a weird life, which I will not go into here, but suffice it to say that rather than raising any alarms, someone else with a weirder life just made me feel more like a kindred spirit.
And if that shit ain't weird enough, tell me, we have Harlan Ellison, a man whose Love Ain't Nothing But Sex Misspelled was read by me at the tender age of ten, snatched off my mom's bookshelf, which made me a fan fo-evah. Harlan Ellison, the man who bound me to the incredibly talented, funny-as-shit, far-too-opinionated, love-you-till-it-hurts, Macaulay-Culkin-lookalike Joshua Olson. Harlan Ellison, whose books I've toted around the world more than once and now fill two boxes stashed downstairs till I build my bookcase. Harlan Ellison, who has been the significant influence on me for more than three decades, whose work I still quote chapter and verse anytime the situation deems it necessary, which is quite often.
Harlan Ellison, THAT Harlan Ellison, is the fella that breaks it to me about Jesse Jubilee James. Harlan. Ellison. For fuck's sake. Now who has the weird life? Who's surreal now?
So, I can't say I blame anyone who thinks that Josh's article is a piece of internet trickery, or that this blog and the video is all part of the hoax. Would that I was as skeptical two-and-a-half years ago.
But it ain't. It was real. Horribly real.
And so I ask myself again, How could I be so stupid? So gullible? So easily deceived?
It wasn't that easy. But I have no answers for the rest of it.
How could I be so stupid? So gullible? So easily deceived? I ask myself that often. I am not any of those things, usually. Was I lonely? I guess I was, a bit, but any of my friends would tell you I didn't habitually trawl for love-n-stuff on the internets, or ever, really, for that matter. Even Josh would have to admit that. This "Jesse" spooled it out slow-ish, and we started out friends. Yeah, he sounded too good to believe, except for the crazy part, and the PTSD that he got from being traded as a sex toy for four years to pedophile drug dealers by his molesting hippie junkie dad behind his chilly feminist lecturer mother's back. Too good to believe except for the older brother who shot himself the first night Jesse was raped by the dealers, the night his father hooked him on heroin to help him deal with the pain. Big brother couldn't deal with not being able to protect his younger sibling, and so offed hisownself. "Jesse" may have been a journalist/fireman who loved yoga, but he was damaged. Janna had done her homework on me before "Jesse" ever made an appearance, so she knew what would prick up my ears (fnar).
Janna made a slurry of fact and fiction, hard to tell even now through the sludge how much of it had actually happened to her. I thought for sure that even though Annie Martel might not have been "Jesse's" therapist, that she must have at least known Janna from back in the John Denver days, because Janna had so many stories about them. I spoke to "Jesse" on the phone often, but he was always whispery and hoarse, because he was shy and didn't talk much in his 3D life, so his vocal cords were weak, but jesus, could he write. Now, I'm sure we all know people like that, folks who come alive in type but are pretty inept in person. "Jesse" and his family had been exposed to an internet freak who'd been stalking Janna trying to get close to Dan Fogelberg, and had gone as far as to impersonate her on the Dan Fogelberg boards and to telephone her home to freak out her daughter. "Jesse's" sister made him promise never to expose them to people like that again, so he (and Janna) were very leery of giving out any personal details to people they didn't really know. These are some of the backstories I was given, Janna covering her ass.
It would take pages and pages to explain how I got sucked in (operative word with my 20:20 hindsight being suck, of course) for as long as I did, but here are the main points in a nutshell. I was committed to a project with 100-hour workweeks for the entire year I knew "Jesse." I did try to fly to Denver early on in the "relationship" to see him, but his dog Wrinkle had just died, his grandmother was conveniently dying, and it would have been inappropriate for me to be there during such a tense time for the family. I had bought a plane ticket and was on my way to the airport when "Jesse" called and implored me not to come to Denver. He wanted our first meeting to be perfect, he was beset by anxiety, blah blah blah. We made other plans, but then of course after a weird buildup over several weeks, he shot himself and then was in a psychiatric hospital where only family and his therapist could visit. Then, of course, I couldn't cope with "Jesse's" nuttiness (he'd been diagnosed as bipolar) and we stopped talking for a while, although I was still communicating with Janna, because we'd become friendly.
Confused yet? Bored? Sorry. It's so convoluted.
We picked up again and made other plans, which were scuppered because "Jesse's" mother revealed that his father wasn't really his father, so the fact that he'd been molested by this man as a child wasn't so bad because it wasn't incest. "Jesse" then had to go on a quest for his real father, who was Irish, and a repressed Catholic, and gay, and repenting for sinning against the Scriptures (for fathering a child with a woman whose husband it was he really wanted to have sex with, being a hypocrite and marrying and fathering two more children, and of course the gay thing) by doing charity work for Concern in war- and disaster-torn nations worldwide. So "Jesse" went to Pakistan against his sister's orders, and she, being his legal guardian (since he'd OD'd after 9/11, but hey, that's another story) went to the courts so they would send authorities to pick him up at the airport when he came back and commit him for flagrantly disobeying her. There went that weekend we were supposed to meet in Laguna Beach. It was hardly ever "Jesse" canceling things, it was circumstances.
And "Jesse's" real father's name? Davian Blaine. Yes, dear readers, I know. But I was already in so deep there was no way I suspected "Jesse" wasn't real, as outlandish as that all sounded. I'd been having email conversations with other friends of his, his ex-wife and other friends of his had posted on his blog, I'd seen pictures of his friends and ex-wife and son, his sister's house and his llamas. Which, of course, turned out to be Dan Fogelberg's house and llamas.
I finished my taxing job after a year, prepared to make a move so we could try each other on. And then, well, "Jesse" died. And Janna was utterly lovely to me. Of course, most of "Jesse's" other friends were quite horrible to me, because they never understood why he was interested in me in the first place, and constantly criticized me for not making more of an effort to be with him. But Janna was always a comfort, telling me stories, and encouraging me to set up the tribute blog. I was emailing with "Jesse's" son, who was going to spend time in Spain. I had an address. I was emailing with "Jesse's" ex-wife and his best friend Cakey. And Annie Martel, "Jesse's" therapist. I met Janna, and she was real, we spent a few days together driving around Colorado and New Mexico, while she showed me some of "Jesse's" favorite places. She cried real tears when talking with me about "Jesse" on his birthday. I saw them. Seven months passed between "Jesse's" death and Janna's visit to my house, and the now much-viewed confrontation.
Now, I've known people with strangeass names, and for the offspring of hippie parents, Jesse Jubilee James isn't totally off the wall. His other siblings had stupid names too. And hey, should Sandra Bullock be worried because she's married to some guy called Jesse James? [editor's hindsight note: why yes, yes, Sandra should] I've met Moon Unit Zappa, for fuck's sake. So, that really didn't raise any alarms, 'specially since "Jesse" was pretty goddamned embarrassed about it, the way any real person with fucked parents would be. I've known people who seem to be disaster magnets - I lived with a girl called Laura, and another called Tammy back in the 80s who were precisely that, so that was believable also. The weird life, well, shit, I've had a weird life, which I will not go into here, but suffice it to say that rather than raising any alarms, someone else with a weirder life just made me feel more like a kindred spirit.
And if that shit ain't weird enough, tell me, we have Harlan Ellison, a man whose Love Ain't Nothing But Sex Misspelled was read by me at the tender age of ten, snatched off my mom's bookshelf, which made me a fan fo-evah. Harlan Ellison, the man who bound me to the incredibly talented, funny-as-shit, far-too-opinionated, love-you-till-it-hurts, Macaulay-Culkin-lookalike Joshua Olson. Harlan Ellison, whose books I've toted around the world more than once and now fill two boxes stashed downstairs till I build my bookcase. Harlan Ellison, who has been the significant influence on me for more than three decades, whose work I still quote chapter and verse anytime the situation deems it necessary, which is quite often.
Harlan Ellison, THAT Harlan Ellison, is the fella that breaks it to me about Jesse Jubilee James. Harlan. Ellison. For fuck's sake. Now who has the weird life? Who's surreal now?
So, I can't say I blame anyone who thinks that Josh's article is a piece of internet trickery, or that this blog and the video is all part of the hoax. Would that I was as skeptical two-and-a-half years ago.
But it ain't. It was real. Horribly real.
And so I ask myself again, How could I be so stupid? So gullible? So easily deceived?
It wasn't that easy. But I have no answers for the rest of it.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
here it is
Well, folks, it's been a long hard slog, huh? Click here to read the article.
I will add my own corrections here, since Josh is a little wrong about some stuff, but that's what happens with journalists, eh?
1. Janna St. James lives in Batavia, which is a suburb of Chicago, I believe. It's also good to know that her married name is Priggie, just in case she starts putting herself forward as Janna Priggie, "friend" of some other celebrity or eligible beefcake out there in interwebsland.
2. Jesse and I did not exchange clothes so we'd know what each other smelled like. Eeeew. I'm strange enough without having to add to it, friends, thankyouverymuch.
3. I'd broken off with the younger man before I was even talking to Jesse again. One had nothing to do with the other.
4. I didn't ask Harlan if I could bring Janna to his house, just the new puppy. Harlan's a lovely man, fabulous writer, and I do believe this could be the first time ever in history that he's wrong about something, but wrong he is.
There're other little tiny hiccups in the article, mostly to do with timeline, and some more things to do with me, but fuckit, it's my life and I have to live with the shit I've done; I've learned to roll with the punches. The important thing is that the facts about Janna Saint James are correct. Copies of the article are on their way to all Chicago-area publications, just in case they would otherwise miss it. Did I mention it's this week's cover story?
I will add my own corrections here, since Josh is a little wrong about some stuff, but that's what happens with journalists, eh?
1. Janna St. James lives in Batavia, which is a suburb of Chicago, I believe. It's also good to know that her married name is Priggie, just in case she starts putting herself forward as Janna Priggie, "friend" of some other celebrity or eligible beefcake out there in interwebsland.
2. Jesse and I did not exchange clothes so we'd know what each other smelled like. Eeeew. I'm strange enough without having to add to it, friends, thankyouverymuch.
3. I'd broken off with the younger man before I was even talking to Jesse again. One had nothing to do with the other.
4. I didn't ask Harlan if I could bring Janna to his house, just the new puppy. Harlan's a lovely man, fabulous writer, and I do believe this could be the first time ever in history that he's wrong about something, but wrong he is.
There're other little tiny hiccups in the article, mostly to do with timeline, and some more things to do with me, but fuckit, it's my life and I have to live with the shit I've done; I've learned to roll with the punches. The important thing is that the facts about Janna Saint James are correct. Copies of the article are on their way to all Chicago-area publications, just in case they would otherwise miss it. Did I mention it's this week's cover story?
Friday, May 4, 2007
the hits just keep on coming
Funny how someone who comments on my blog gets miffed when I then check theirs out, find something mean and just plain wrong about me vis-a-vis this situation, and comment on it. So miffed, in fact, that she won't allow me to comment at all anymore. So I guess I'll just respond here.
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Cari -
You "invited" me to your blog when you felt yourself entitled to comment on my own blog (which I don't recall inviting you to) nigh on two months ago.
I requested proof of "Jesse's" existence, as you know, when it was proven otherwise to me by research my friends and private investigators undertook. I also offered to have a neutral party deposed to say they'd seen "Jesse's" death certificate without revealing to me what "his" real name was, so your bullshit about me trying to weasel into this alleged family is just that - bullshit.
I can't figure out if you're Janna St. James, in collusion with Janna, or have just bought so deep into the fiction that you can't see the forest for the trees. I suspect the latter (but. don't. KNOW. for. sure.), and further, can't figure your motivation - is it that you're so painfully gullible or simply so egotistical that you can't believe you're wrong? Either way, you're clearly miffed that I didn't respond to your email platitudes, and you feel like lashing out at me for it. Whatevs. You wrote me an email that didn't prove jacksquat about who you are, more just gave you a forum to rattle on about your opinion, which I was already aware of. It didn't seem to warrant a reply.
Like I've said, it's been proven that Janna has told massive lies about herself, and whether or not she was "Jesse," the fact remains that nothing I was told by "Jesse," or any "friends" or "family" of "Jesse" was true in the least. So spare me your sympathy for the hurt of alleged people who made it their life's work to fuck with my head for nearly two years. And please limit your psychoanalysis to those poor souls deluded enough to pay you for their services because they think you're qualified to help them.
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Now, back to our previously scheduled programming.
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Cari -
You "invited" me to your blog when you felt yourself entitled to comment on my own blog (which I don't recall inviting you to) nigh on two months ago.
I requested proof of "Jesse's" existence, as you know, when it was proven otherwise to me by research my friends and private investigators undertook. I also offered to have a neutral party deposed to say they'd seen "Jesse's" death certificate without revealing to me what "his" real name was, so your bullshit about me trying to weasel into this alleged family is just that - bullshit.
I can't figure out if you're Janna St. James, in collusion with Janna, or have just bought so deep into the fiction that you can't see the forest for the trees. I suspect the latter (but. don't. KNOW. for. sure.), and further, can't figure your motivation - is it that you're so painfully gullible or simply so egotistical that you can't believe you're wrong? Either way, you're clearly miffed that I didn't respond to your email platitudes, and you feel like lashing out at me for it. Whatevs. You wrote me an email that didn't prove jacksquat about who you are, more just gave you a forum to rattle on about your opinion, which I was already aware of. It didn't seem to warrant a reply.
Like I've said, it's been proven that Janna has told massive lies about herself, and whether or not she was "Jesse," the fact remains that nothing I was told by "Jesse," or any "friends" or "family" of "Jesse" was true in the least. So spare me your sympathy for the hurt of alleged people who made it their life's work to fuck with my head for nearly two years. And please limit your psychoanalysis to those poor souls deluded enough to pay you for their services because they think you're qualified to help them.
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Now, back to our previously scheduled programming.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, March 12, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
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.
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.
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