Ann Sterzinger Is Not Lying About Being Raped, But You All Sure Are Crazy.

So apparently there were some Internet bloodsports last night over the important question of whether I was actually raped or not.

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(I’m not sure who all was involved; I’ve been told, but A. Most of those involved seem to be the sort of bearded doughy replicas of each other who should have never been born and almost know it, but they yell really loud on the Internet so that’s an ephemeral “scene.” In about six months I won’t need to preface stuff like this with an insincere apology for forgetting which one is which anymore. I think some of the names were like “Irony Fleas” and “I Get Sweaty Every Month” and “Fedora Hats Are the Only Ones You Can Wear In the Vatican”)….

Durrrrrr. The “she wasn’t raped!”crowd really had to go to some strange lengths to double down on this one, because arguing that women who have repeatedly defended their worst enemies from fake rape charges are definitely those most likely to make fake rape charges against random strangers.

Yep. Them’s the kinda bitch most likely to pretend to be raped, go to the hospital to get evidence taken (which involves being stuck with lots of needles, one of my major-minor neuroses, as well as being pumped full of so many antibiotics I have either been shitting my spleen out or constipated ever since), and then flee across the country to a half-assed living situation where they are bitten by fleas and stricken by typhus. Making this case would be a hard job even for an old-school classical sophist—whereas these skinks can barely make a good argument for running out of a burning building.

In other words, if I had ANY propensity to make fake rape charges, Matt Forney—who has spent the past three years accusing me of being his ex-girlfriend, possibly one of the worst crimes a person could be charged with, simply because I decided in 2015 that dating this lump of weird compulsive-lying protoplasm would actually be the worst possible thing I could do with my life, and the best revenge you can take against a girl who won’t date you is to pretend she dated you (Jesus, this indicates a level of self-hatred so appalling it risks dragging you into the kind of compassion spiral that gets people into these quagmires in the first place)—would be spending the rest of his life in jail, because everyone from Rachel Haywire to Matt Himself has accused him of raping me.

But because I was drinking at the time, stupid me, I don’t recall whether he raped me or not, thank god. (I mean, OK, the alcohol is to thank for blotting out the memory, but it created the situation. And this is how that Homer Simpson joke about not blaming the beer got written.) So, as many chances as I’ve had to put this goof behind bars, complete with witnesses who would have sold their own siblings into slavery to testify against him, I have not done so, because I think putting someone in jail for something they didn’t do is one of the most immoral acts you can commit, and I didn’t even want to CHANCE doing that.

Course, most people don’t know me personally, so I can’t expect you all to believe this sight unseen. However, their case would be much easier to make if I were making money at this. It might even make some sense.

But ever since it became clear that the Chicago Police Department wasn’t going to do anything about the fact that my rapist was probably still peacefully living a couple doors down from me, my impromptu flight across the country has actually been a living hell, and hardly profitable. I’ve actually spent all of my money on airline tickets, antibiotics*, failed attempts to make my current home livable, and a noise-blocking tent to cover my bed with so at least I can sleep through current roommate Edwin’s horrendous music. EXCEPT THE FUCKING BED TENT NEVER ARRIVED, so I’m down $200 and still have not had seven hours’ solid sleep in AT LEAST A MONTH. I am beginning to dream while standing upright. I think I hear voices. I think people are in the house when they aren’t.

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… also, B. I’ve never been good with proper names, since I went to a high school of 100 people, which explains some of my perplexikity when it comes to all y’all’s silly high-school-games mentality, especially when it continues way too long into “adulthood”; I guess it’s like reindeer games but you don’t give anyone presents. (Note: If you have no idea what this article is about, that means you aren’t wasting your life being an Internet weirdo, so good job.)

Not that I have any privacy here; it’s a weird group living situation where sometimes I look up and the landlord’s buddy the porn star is hanging out in the kitchen. (And this isn’t even an hallucination.) I can’t type much more about the situation, because [I’m trying to remember who’s threatened me with what if I say or do what, but I’ve basically been threatened with something or other for doing everything from posting about flea foggers on Facebook to how I brush my teeth]. My cats escape every time someone leaves a door open (which is often, because everyone who comes in here has to be told just how sneaky they are) and go get more fleas. So, my last doctor (by “my doctor” I mean I paid her $25 to prescribe me random antibiotics over the Internet) said I have typhus, but I might have more stuff now. Or less stuff. Can some fleas give you things that cancel out the typhus fleas? Come on, anti-typhus fleas! Go, little critters, go! Whee! I could probably undress and inspect myself visually for insects right now, come to think of it; I think I’m actually alone for once right now, but I’m not sure.

But it was DEFINITELY ALL WORTH IT IN ORDER TO FALSELY ACCUSE A STRANGER OF RAPE, JUST TO MAKE SURE YOU ALL KNOW THAT MATT FORNEY DOESN’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK ABOUT ANYONE BUT HIMSELF.

Jesus, I could have proven that just by sending you a link to anything he’s ever said or done. I didn’t need to get FUCKING TYPHUS.

Sigh. Alas, many computer addicts have never met reality, so what looks to normal people like sitting in a lonely, messy Dew Den doubling down on ridiculous lies is their idea of a fun Saturday night. (Dear PMS Sweat Guy: the greenscreen isn’t fooling anyone. You should rethink this whole transition.)

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Just because you’re colorblind and addicted to Ding-Dongs doesn’t mean you can’t call me a coke whore.

Fortunately, the bloodsports video got so gross and pointless that I think YouTube removed it in order to stop their servers from melting down due to sheer disgust. Congratulations to all involved; you have actually shamed computer circuits into ceasing to function.

Anyway, sincere thanks to Jim Goad and John Steele, both of whom were dragged in and rolled their eyes with an “of course she was raped, you morons,” because they know what typhus is. They also know about the birds and the bees, but we can save that for a later lesson.

(Like all of my stories, this one is confusing as shit. OK, so the hospital round of antibiotics were to protect me from STDs; the second round was to cure the UTI that the STD antibiotics gave me, and then the third round, which is ongoing, is a not-very-successful attempt to cure the skin/perhaps full-system infection I’ve gotten from the vermin living in my new home.)

I Can’t Resist #2: Actually, if I ever get the time, I will answer their silly questions. It will amuse me. Unfortunately I am screwed for time at the present moment. Goddamn it, I have so much shit to do. How is anyone on this planet EVER BORED?

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Author of NVSQVAM, DISASTER FITNESS, the upcoming ELEKTRA’S REVENGE sci-fi epic, & the action novella SEINE VENDETTA. Editor of YOU’RE ALL PUSSIES.

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