I just got my first piece of hate mail, so I thought you guys might want to read it:
I am going to do you a favor and not put this on your blog. Stop. Fucking. Writing. About. Me. This is not a threat; it’s a spoiler. If you keep burying me on your stupid blog, then I’m going to start one of my own with the expressed purpose of defending myself. I have 13 academic publications that are peer reviewed and scrutinized–which is to say my work is at the highest level. Who is peer editing you? That isn’t opinion. It’s fact. I am a better writer than you, and you don’t want me to prove it.
Here are some things that I find preposterous. You said I was going to either A) end up alone with my dog, my cats and my snake. Well, actually, that’s pretty awesome. I would love that life. It means I could play music, do art, and watch wrestling, football and baseball without reproach. B) I would end up marrying some crack whore that would just regale me with praise. The dynamic there is actually pretty equitable. When someone is kind to you and celebrates you, it’s really easy to show them love back.
You put yourself over as being this warm-hearted paragon of a person. You called me so many defaming names. My favorite was “little boy” or some derivation thereof.
I could have lived with you being autistic. What I’m not going to deal with is the egg shells. So do me a favor–write about something else. I don’t care what. Bee-keeping. 18th century women’s literature. Queer literary theory. Gender identity politics. Parasocial behavior. Whatever pricks your fancy that ISNT talking shit about me.
I hate myself right now. But I’m not going to be the villain in your story. Keep writing negatively about me, and I will do something about it that you don’t like.
Admit it or not, I’m a better writer than you are. I will skewer you. Just because you write in bulk doesn’t mean you’re actually saying anything of substance.
The next time you blog about me–im commenting with all the vitriol I can muster. And there isn’t a God Damned thing you can do about it. Don’t make me do it.
You can absolutely believe that I said any or all of these things, because it doesn’t matter to me whether he believes my story or not, nor do I care whether the audience believes me. This is because these are the memories I’m going to be carrying forward as I age, and my words will be here for me when my audience is long gone.
If you’re interested, my reply was that he told me that I could say whatever I wanted about him, and if he doubts that, I wrote it down in several places. And since now he’s mad, I told him that he only wants me to write about him when I praise him, so it makes him a shitty character. And then I blocked him, because this isn’t a flame war. This is the best insurance I have that I absolutely dodged a bullet.
Stories That Are All True 