Troublemaker in My Tagboard

A few days ago, someone started posting distasteful messages in my Tagboard, hard-bent on labelling me (or, in his mind, outing me) as gay. As Banzai Cat had pointed out, it seemed he was offended by what I said in a paragraph in a recent post (“A Playwright’s Pet Peeve”):

"… Putangina. Binaboy talaga. And the lowest point in it? The uber-effeminate guy who played the heroine’s gay best friend in my play—and who, incidentally, was also the director—lectured to two female characters (who were not in the play at all) while wearing a Darna bustier (!)…"

There’s nothing false or malicious about the abovementioned passage; that’s the way it actually happened. Still, my Tagboard troublemaker apparently read it differently. I have my suspicions as to who it is, but it’s hard to tell if your only clue is a face made up of brackets and colons. I just wish he would diss me in my face—that is, if he knows me personally.

He posted again in my Tagboard earlier this morning. Not only did he call me gay, he also “advised” me to come out of the closet. He also dissed my writings, which is all right with me; I don’t expect everyone to like what I write. But it’s clear to me that as long as I have a Tagboard, he won’t stop being a nuisance. So I decided to remove it. No big deal.

This was not the first time someone has called me gay, and I’m sure I’m not the only playwright who has experienced this. Those who previously did for one reason or another ended up disap­pointed or embarrassed by or regretful about it. Really, I don’t have any real reason to react violently when someone calls me gay. Why should I? And, for the sake of argument, if I were gay, shouldn’t I be the one to decide whether to out myself or not? But it appears the troublemaker wants to relieve me of that decision and take it upon himself on my behalf, or so he believes.

I just turned a year older, and at my age I already know who I am, what I’m capable of, and what I want out of life. I’m comfortable with the decisions I have made in my life, and I feel I don’t have to explain or justify them to everyone, particularly to people I don’t know. And I confront whatever the consequences my decisions reap. At my age I let other people think what they want to think. Some of the most fascinating people around are those who are hard to read, hard to figure out.

What bothers me about the whole situation is the troublemaker’s lack of identity. There’s really nothing more cowardly—at least, as far as blogging is concerned—than dissing someone anony­mously. That speaks volumes about the kind of person that he is. And if he’s expecting me to diss him back, I’m sorry but I’m afraid I won’t stoop that low. That’s not the way I was raised.

So, to the troublemaking bee-yotch: Get some real balls. You clearly need them.