Hey, Fuckers.

Is that how we're doing this?

Okay, I seriously don’t have time for this project BUT since there are hundredS (plural) of you who were like “yeah, bring me some of that sweet, sweet shitposting”, here we are.

Sometimes you’re going to get posts that are obviously authored, signed and endorsed by me (like this one).

Other ones will be posted anonymously by the Rage Monster itself, or some semblance of other characters as we deem appropriate. That’s to protect the identities of those—namely, all of you—who need to shout into the void about whatever is chapping your ass this week/month/year.

I’m working out the logistics right now of how to take contributions. I want y’all to tell your stories and rant and cry and do whatever else you need to do but I also want to be sure this is something people actually want to READ which means I have to do some curation and act like an editor and think about things like “what if someone sends me an anonymous letter about something really heavy and hard and what do I do with that?”. Because you know someone will, and I’m fully supportive of that, but I really don’t want to fuck that part up.

So, patience please while your producer figures out how to make this a thing that fits into her chaotic, already-overflowing life.

For this week’s fuckery….

I participated on a virtual panel this week. I normally say no to panels because, well, they suck.

They’re never moderated well, there are always too many people, no one ever gets to make a point at any depth, no discussion ever happens, and it’s just questions with soundbite responses which renders the whole thing generally just a waste of everyone’s time.

This week, dear readers, was no fucking exception.

I present for a living. Literally. It is my job to speak and educate professionally, both virtually and in person, in small group settings and at big conferences. That is my job. Which people usually know when they book me for things. I’m good at it.

So when This Guy this week was like “hey do you need a prep call for this panel” and I was like “no, I’m good” and he insisted because of course the young woman must need a prep call har har something mansmarts, I knew it was going to be a doozy. I was not wrong.

20 minutes of prep call of This Guy telling me all about his personal philosophy of running panels and how he does a lot of them and these are all the ways to engage your audience and be sure to keep my answers succinct and don’t forget to be energetic. I think I maybe said four words.

Then This Guy, on the day of, proceeds to dominate most of the 60 minutes with his own talking to hear the sound of his own voice over—wait for it—the panel of four women, and somehow managed to be a terrible moderator of an aimless, toothless discussion despite all of his proclaimed panel prowess. Lord, grant me the confidence of yet another mediocre white man who figures himself the benevolent steward of Shitty Thought Leadership.

Anyway. Remind me to say no next time. Again.

Why are we doing this, anyway?

Here’s the way I figure it. It’s been a hell of a fucking year. For all of us.

I’m tired. I have a hair-trigger temper these days because my last nerves are worn down to pandemic-flavored nubs and I’m trying to balance a demanding day job with a fucking book (actually two if you count the fucking novel that’s sitting in my docs, begging me to not make out with her once this weekend and then ignore her for months).

My kid is graduating middle school and I am not okay with that, I can’t fucking ride my horse right now or maybe any horse for quite some time, I can’t fucking get on planes and see my fucking people quite yet so I’m stir crazy and missing my loved ones, AND because I’m a special glutton for punishment I’m trying to reclaim the walking and eating habits that helped me drop nearly 30 pounds last summer but that winter and my back put on ice for a while. Which means no booze right now, either. Needless to say, I’m the poster child for pent-up angst.

You probably had a boss or a client piss you off this week. Or a random stranger police the mask you chose to still wear to the grocery store. Maybe your family is making you insane or your industry colleagues are posting stupid shit on the internet or, like many women in my DMs, you’re really mad about the fucker that everyone thinks of as an influencer but you really know that he’s a sexist, abusive asshole. I’m here for it. And here for you.

So if you like, you can be one of our rage monsters, and pen the missive you wish you could send to that colleague or boss or friend or random internet stranger or “influencer” or whatever’s on your mind. I’ll publish it anonymously, you’ll get catharsis, maybe we’ll get some laughs or hugs or clicks and we’ll get that precious serotonin that makes us all feel more valid, seen and loved in the digital universe. Or something.

More soon. In the meantime, hang in there. You’re among friends. Or at least people who are also habitually pissed off, and that’s something.

With love and angst,

Amber