Do you wanna fight?
Seriously, shall we go to the nearest dark alley and drop our weapons, raise our fists and throw down?
I’d win, because you’re a frail bitch with a coke problem (not very good circulation, I’m afraid; you’d black out and I would crush your fucking ribcage). I’d love to see you coughing up black, shaking your head and trying to regain reality while your drug-infused brain dipped between past and present. I’d love to crush you sober, too, throwing repeated punches to cranial arteries and that damaged bit of cartilage you call a nose.
"Check my privilege" seems to be your favorite phrase (god, it’s fucking annoying), but you don’t really follow through. You bask in the attention of celebrities at le Chateau (jesus, anyone who’s seen those fake butterflies knows it’s kitsch as fuck), but after skimming through most of your articles I’ve come to the conclusion that you never really HAD any privilege. You’re (white?) cogent enough to string together a few sentences, but you still come across as that tacky-ass girl who went away to finishing school after sixteen and came back trying to fight the privilege she still hasn’t gained. Really, you’re just a cardboard mock-up of someone you want to destroy, and you’ve spent the last decade or so trying to distract from the societal implications you believe come along with such an achievement. Aww.
We all know you were assaulted by men at gunpoint. Yah. I’m sure that has nothing to do with your anonymity (I don’t blame you) but perhaps everything to do with the fact that you’re still seeking revenge on every idle internet fuckface who stumbles on your blog during a search for “sleeping with my boyfriend’s friend.”
Check your privilege? Please. Don’t use that as the catch-all phrase for other people with ambition who don’t really give a fuck what tacky cling-ons like you think. Checking.your.privilege would mean ditching the drugs, showing your face (shutting the fuck up, as well), making meals at home.
I can tell by your writing style that you’ve written in before. (Each time, increasingly angrier.)
I’m pretty sure the last time you wrote in was a few days ago to tell me about the situation with your friend and her negative experience with my advice. (You have a very distinctive voice — intelligent, insightful, and seething.)
You’ll find your last letter added to the comments section of that post you quoted. Look for it. You’ll see that I already extended an apology to your friend. It was sincere, and if there really is anything I can do to make it right, please don’t hesitate to let me know.
Now, as for your increasingly violent tone, this shit needs to stop. I get that you’re angry, but pointing it in my direction is a waste of everyone’s time. I respect your eye for human weakness, but all this venom you keep spitting my way is doing you a helluva lot more damage than it is me.
I’m sure it feels momentarily therapeutic, but whatever it is you’ve got going on, sending me letters like this is just an exercise in projection. You say I’m a cardboard mock-up of someone I want to destroy (fucking amazing line, by the way), but it also seems I’m a cardboard mock-up of someone you feel comfortable openly fantasizing about murdering with your bare hands.
Dude. Get a fucking handle on your shit. I’m actually a living, breathing human being over here. I know you know that, which is why you’re coming dangerously close to crossing a line with letters like this.
To answer your question, no, I don’t want to fight. This little corner of the internet is the nearest thing to a dark alley in which we’ll ever find ourselves, and the kinds of weapons you and I have we can’t drop.
Instead, how about you take a step back and count to ten. I think you’ll realize that I’m not the one here seeking revenge. You are.