Dear you,

I wish I could meet you in real life.  I would beat the goddamned shit out of you.  And as vile, arrogant, violent, whatever that sentiment is, it’s preferable to the way you work, because it’s fucking honest.  You, on the other hand, are a remarkably twisted person who has been dealt a number of craptastic cards by the universe, but also a number of gilt-edged cards marked “Get out of Jail Free” and “Unearned Privilege.”  Yet your modus operandi still consists of belittling other people, manipulating them, and doing your best to make sure the unfavored live in a cloud of fear with your name and your willingness to go to great lengths to spread poison, bile, and gossip stretched across it.  You are showing yourself to be exactly what you fear, and what you fight against: you are small, weak, pathetic, vicious, and miserable, and you bring a lot of this onto yourself. I, on the other hand, recommend beating the dog crap out of somebody and then walking away and letting it go.  You know, that was the difference between “boy socialization” and “girl socialization” on the playground when I was a kid — the boys would walk up to you, kick you in the shins, and you would know right where you stood.  There would be a fistfight, and thirty minutes later you’d be friends again. The girls, though, tended to be one way to your face and another behind your back.  The hidden damage they could do was immeasurable.  I’m a fighter, not a liar.  I don’t give a great green goddamn about you, but I would kick your ass for your former friend’s sake if I could, because you are a fucked up bitch and it would make me feel better, even though it would probably mortify your friend  You have no right to play emotional terrorist.  You are twisted, and you have created your own hell, and you are living in it, but let’s see you keeping it to yourself, ok?

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