I know it’s you, Dakota. I saw the photos, you have my vacuum, you told me you stole the title. From there, I can kinda fill in the blanks. Here and there, when others are involved, I know that too. I know that many of them are making very bad use of of their frightening power, and that you all should leave me alone.
I don’t know how you know these people, you can’t have propositioned them all. I don’t know what you’re doing, exactly, or how you’re doing it, or how many other people get to see. I know that it is a violation of my privacy and an indictment of your mental health that even one person on the far side of my door can see.
Before I get into how violating it is, or write my entire book about the acute mental suffering you brought on me last time, I just wanna say a few things in my defense.
- You don’t have to like my writing. Plenty of people love it, and it’s objectively very good. I had an editor reach out to me based solely on my Facebook posts. My grammar is virtually immaculate, where it isn’t, it’s a typo or I’ve opted to ignore the rule. I express complicated ideas simply, rendering them accessible in a way they would otherwise not be. I’m original and insightful, you know damn well you can’t out think me. And when I am writing to tell a story, the story sucks you in, you know exactly what I mean and you’re right there. I don’t need to dedicate a whole page to adjectives, I’ve got a lot of damn story to tell, and I guarantee I got better grades on my papers in college than you. Your criticism is unnecessary and it’s not at all constructive. I outscored 95% of freelance writers with a masters degree. Shove it up your ass. When I want your fucking advice, which will be never because no matter how much you deny it I’m fucking smarter smarter you, I’ll ask.
- Criticizing my appearance after I just spent the month half homeless, trying to stay off drugs, is also not constructive. I can see the fucking mirror, you prick. Fuck off.
- You spent a year tearing me apart like this and pretending you were the good guy. You made me feel like nothing I did was right, like I was inherently unclean, and you demonized my faults and I let you, I even tried to be everything you could want. You almost broke me, and I got up in spite of you. And then I continued to worship you while you drove me into the ground.
- I am so much fucking better than you kn every imaginable way. I’d have to mix meth with heroin for ten yeas before my moral character deteriorated to the state of yours, and at the end of ten years, I’d still run mental laps around you.
I don’t know why you feel empowered, hurting innocent people like you do. You’re a psychopath. When I hurt you, I cried and tried to make it better, and then I got out of the way because you convinced me I would never be good enough for you.
It’s not constructive. And you put any one of those men in a room with me for more than an hour and let us talk, and they’re gonna think I’m fucking awesome, too. Your feedback makes me less awesome. You’re making the mistake of thinking that being awesome means I’ve gotta be like you. I wouldn’t diminish myself for you.
So fuck off. For real. Thanks for putting a NY Times Bestseller in my head. Well, you put severe boundary violations and gangstalking in my head, but my head is beautiful, so I’ve made it into something good, in spite of the intended harm. See? So much better than you.
Now shut your fucking mouth and stop trying to break me the fuck down so I can prove it.