I learned a very important life lesson in fifth grade: not everyone is going to like me. In fact, my personality was such that not everyone would almost like me. I had a polarizing effect on friends, family and teachers – either you enjoyed me, or you would really have to pivot away from me. Quickly and frequently. Because if I sniffed out dislike or contempt, I’d have to rely on my pointed prose to engage you to either love me or hit me with an electric cattle prod.

That was then. This is now. Times 10.

Although I discovered this tutorial early in life, I have perfected it to become a platform for my big, fat mouth later in life. By now, you’ve probably noticed that I lack the filter with which words are usually minced. I don’t have one. It’s gone.

When I was pregnant with my third child, I developed pneumonia and was put into a medically induced coma for a month. I swear to you, when I awakened, I was a more saturated color of non-filtered Maria. If I was obnoxious before, I was insufferable post-coma. Was it the Valium or ventilator that robbed me of my political correctness? We may never know.

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At any rate, over my lifetime, I’ve surrounded myself with people that are not insulted by my acerbic and sarcastic attempts at fun. My sense of humor is off-base and crude and my storytelling embellished and PG-18 rated. But yet, my friends and family embrace me for who I am – a foul-mouthed broad who calls a spade a spade and then tells you your bangs make your cheeks look chubby. Shame on me.

Now, having said all that, it does sometimes take me by surprise when I discover there’s a contingency of readers who really, really don’t enjoy me. I try to be unreservedly readable and relatable, but yet, if you peruse the commentary following my online columns, even your eyes would sting. Nasty stuff. And I hate to be pseudo-sexist, but these online phantoms, who drop negative comments like piles of doo-doo in a dog park, are not usually female.

As I read my column online, there’s always a little voice in my head that warns, “Don’t scroll down, don’t scroll down, don’t…ohhh…too late,” and then I must digest negative nuggets of anonymous observations about myself and my writing. I can’t look away.

Listen – I’m not for everyone! But, while I’m no sociologist, I know that if something offends my sensibilities, or gives me stomach cramps akin to a brutal case of Legionnaires, I don’t read it, watch it or talk about it. The Kardashians, for example, make my blood boil, so here is what I do: I change the channel. I turn the page. I move onto something I enjoy, like “The Real Housewives of Orange County” or photos of Channing Tatum. I can’t look away.

So, I feel compelled, as a public service, to offer the following advice: for those of you who most decidedly do not enjoy “Deconstructing Life” with me each week, I urge you to turn the page. Or, conversely, if you’re zipping through online – lucky for you it’s even easier — no need to click on my column. Don’t touch that mouse. Just say no, and we will both rest easier tonight. But you may want to sleep with one eye open. I may or may not have my own electric cattle prod.