In Which We Attempt to Calmly Explain What the Hell Happened on XOJane Without a Rage Stroke
You may have come across some tweets about XOJane and a particularly inflammatory post that has now been removed in favor of an apology from the editor. You may be wondering what this post was about, if it was as some are likely to assume, just another “social justice warrior” outragefest because the writer used the word “crazy” or something.
No. And go fuck yourself.
A writer by the name of Amanda Lauren wrote a post about a “friend” who killed herself. And she called it a blessing. Because her “friend” was beyond help. Because that “friend” didn’t clean up her room, hit on a guy she liked and quit her job.
Seriously, that’s it.
Leah and I reconnected when we were both living in Los Angeles. There was always something about her that wasn’t quite right. While I was admittedly, for a while, not the best adult, there was something about her mindset that had had just stopped evolving after high school. Her apartment was always filthy and her bedroom had clothing strewn about everywhere. She didn’t take pride in her home or respect her own property.
She also didn’t have real boyfriends or go out on dates. While dating in L.A. is hard, I feel like she probably had no concept of how to be in a relationship. While we were close, our friendship started to come to a turning point when she blatantly tried to hook up with a guy I had a crush on. My feelings didn’t matter to her. After that, I never looked at Leah the same way again, but I forgave her.
We had another argument when I wouldn’t lend her something of mine that was irreplaceable and she didn’t understand why. The final straw was when I got her a job working for the same company I did. Sure, it wasn’t the greatest job, but when you need money, you work. Of course she really didn’t have to work because her parents gave her whatever she wanted. I think this partially due to her sister’s death. When Leah quit the job shortly after being hired, I was really angry with her because I felt it made me look bad. I told her I didn’t want to be friends anymore. In all fairness, I could have been more patient, but I was going through some of my own difficulties.
GOING. THROUGH. HER OWN. DIFFICULTIES.
Then she and her friends laughingly shared screenshots of her social media posts and sex work. And then it gets worse from there. It’s absolutely unbearable. Like listening to a horrible high school acquaintance say unimaginably cruel things about someone, only it’s a public post on a huge website. It’s the airing of this dead girl’s dirty laundry—right down to complaining about her dirty laundry.
After the piece met an outcry from horrified readers, XOJane took action. By removing Lauren’s byline and publishing the piece anonymously—with comments turned off. They finally deleted the piece and replaced it with an apology.
But it still exists. Because this is the internet. You can read it here. It’s nothing but “I” statements that make no attempt to understand her “friend“‘s emotional state, just share her annoyance about it.
I do not like besmirching fellow female writers. It’s hard out there for us and we’re in this together. But not Amanda Lauren. She is awful.
Lauren is also the mind behind “Staying Hot for My Husband Is ESSENTIAL for a Good Marriage” with dollops of wisdom like this:
If men can’t help but be visual creatures, I need to oblige. And while I’m not sure if his friends are jealous so to say, they do acknowledge he has a hot wife.
You can get an even greater indication of Lauren’s persona from a passage from her “forthcoming memoir:
The following is an excerpt of a chapter from my forthcoming memoir, I Only Cried Twice Today: Epic Incidents In La La Land, a humorous take on the most challenging years of my life.
Cunt Chocula “The Psycho HR Lady,” hated me from the moment we met. I can understand why, I’m a hot little blonde with a well-connected family from the Upper East Side of Manhattan. After hours of overanalyzing her hate for me, I’m pretty sure I resemble the girl who stole her high school boyfriend just before prom. Cunty wasn’t exactly a super model, but she wasn’t Mamma June either. Her daily four-hour commute also probably didn’t do much to help her looks or attitude. While I know this sounds impossible, because her wardrobe choices were worse than Nicolas Cage’s movie choices, Cunty is the only woman I’ve ever seen in my life who could actually make large breasts look repulsive. If there are any men reading this, please, please just take my word.
I’m not a “hot little blonde with a well-connected family from the Upper East Side of Manhattan.” It hasn’t really crossed my mind whether or not my husband’s friends are jealous or acknowledging of his “hot wife.” And I’ve had moments where I’ve been written off as “beyond help.” Moments where I’ve thought, been certain, that I was at best an annoyance, at worst the kind of person who might inspire a thinkpiece about being better off without me, because everyone really would be better off without me.
Fuck you, Amanda Lauren. Your actions here have been unspeakable.
Fuck you, XOJane. How dare you publish that, pay for it, use your platform to allow us, those of us who’ve been that friend Amanda Lauren was so happy died alone in a bathtub, to read it. And to make money off its virality.
Fuck you the news outlets that will interview Amanda Lauren to “get her side” and lead her to further fame, fame and money made on the dead back of a dead woman whose death was cause for celebration to this festersore of a human being. Fuck. You.
I’m angry. I’m heartbroken.
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