I don’t know how you got my email address, but you can fuck right the fucking fuck off.
I am so sick of you people. In the past, I’ve spent so many hours trying to be your friend, trying to get your attention, trying to be part of whatever clique-y little bullshit parade you’re part of. But you never let me in, do you? No matter how nice, cool, mean, stupid, or whatever I am, I can’t be part of whatever hand-me-down fuckery you learned from some other idiot.
But every once in awhile, your conscience strikes you. You make a few sympathetic murmurs, then go on acting just as you were. Who do you think you’re fooling? I’m crazy, not stupid. I see right through you.
Oh, dear letter writer. If only I had time to tell you all the ways you can go fuck yourself. Every line of your insipid, self-serving email makes me want to cut myself. Oh hell, the opening alone is enough to make me want to drink a bottle of ipecac and die:
I saw your post. I’ve been following you for a long time and I want you to know it gets better. Things do get better! Promise! I know because. . .
Blah-blah-fukken-blah. Let me stop you there, lady (going to assume you’re a lady because I want to). If you had any idea of what I’m going through, you’d know it doesn’t get better. No, it only gets worse. My mental constitution has become a terminal disease and it is rapidly killing me. I am profoundly nervous, depressed, anxious, and, at times, paranoid.
Things just don’t get better. Every time something nice happens, some other catastrophe balances it out. The universe hates me. It’s hated me since I was born. It hates me now.
I’m depressed, lonely, misanthropic, bored, and afraid of even breathing too loudly lest the delicate balance of what little life I have gets toppled into the abyss.
You don’t know shit. Stop it with your hypocritical, arrogant bullshit. You don’t know me, you have no idea how I’ve suffered, and you have no idea how hard I’d bite you if I knew where to find you.
My life doesn’t tend to get better, but your letter sure does!
Right now it’s hard to see, but you’re loved.
By who? Santa Claus? I have one (elderly) family member, no friends, no gods. Just a collie. A collie who would probably fuck off into the sunset if her food bowl was empty for too long. How about instead of assuming people have other people in their life, you think a bit. But oh, that wouldn’t give you a chance to crow, would it? You wouldn’t be able to write like you’re some inspirational angel fate has sent to somehow turn me into a better person. Or whatever bullshit you morons are hawking these days.
It hurts. . . [Things aren’t] all bad. . . .
They are when you’re so mentally ill you can barely leave the apartment.
They are when you’re so mentally ill you haven’t had a good, high functioning day in YEARS. (In fact, I have no idea what the day of a high functioning person looks like.)
Things are all bad when you’re an autistic who never received intervention, and are consequently barely able to function in society.
They are all bad when you have people spewing self help all over your inbox. My inbox is filthy now because of your saccharine hypocrisy.
I suggest therapy.
I suggest you fuck yourself.
Your fake bullshit is not welcome here. Take it elsewhere if you’re looking for pats on the head.