I Think You're Done Now

Another notification. Another hate filled attempt to hurt me. It is 10pm on a Sunday and I check my phone after finishing a movie to see this. Ironically, the entire thing is gone by the time I open the app. No trace you were ever here except a lock screen notification. I often wonder what the point is for you. Are you seeking the adrenaline rush of a potential reaction? Are you hurting so badly that you need to see me hurt, too? Or are you just bored and hoping for some entertainment?

I took a chance. I wrote about love and happiness and within seconds, you were there. Ready to make assumptions and take your jabs. Gone again just as quickly as you came. I saw it, though. I know you were watching. Yet for all your work with making new profiles and having your insults ready, it seems to be your trademark move to delete evidence and get defensive if it is called out. It gives you away every time. You’ve had time to hone your craft, but your emotions make you blind to how obvious you are.

How many profiles do you have at the ready? Do you know what racist remark you’re going to form into a username before you even strike? You actively stalk and attack within seconds. But what’s the point? We’re strangers, you and I. Yet somehow you are always throwing yourself back into my life. Never showing your true identity, but always making sure I know it’s you. As if it would ever be anyone else. I used to defend you. Telling those around me ready with their pitchforks that surely the one behind this has some struggles. Surely they just need a shoulder to lean on. And so I soothed the mob and tried my best to extend some kindness, some understanding. And you spit in my face every time.

You are quiet when it suits you. I assume that always means your private life is going well. I never know when you’ll appear next. No idea what will set you off. Perhaps I’m too happy for your taste. Maybe I spoke up about a cause I care about and you feel attacked. Maybe you just don’t like how your day is going and that is now my fault.

I’ve put up with you for far too long. You’ve invaded my privacy for your own gain and assumed all of my personal writing has been about you. I’ve got news for you. Your lack of spine does not excuse your behavior. Your personal struggles do not make you any less responsible. Your insecurities are clear. Your racism is abundant. You could never hurt me because you never cared to know me. I was never your enemy, contrary to what you had to tell yourself to get by.

I cherish the thought that I will never have to see your face. I get joy laughing with loved ones at your sad attempts to troll me. I feel nothing for you but pity. Pity that you need to do such low and messy things to feel okay in your own life. Pity that you couldn’t accept the possibility of a friend. Pity that you isolate yourself when it is so obvious you need comfort. Pity that this is the way you choose to live.

However, pity only goes so far. I’m running on empty and no longer care to protect you or try to understand from your point of view. If you’re so happy, go ahead and focus on your own life. There’s no place for you in mine. You have no skill in what you attempt to do. You have no courage, constantly hiding your face or covering your tracks with lies to garner sympathy and attention. You have used up your time here. Get your shit together, sweetheart. If you don’t like me then you are free to never look at what I’m up to or what I’m creating. No one is forcing you to keep tabs. And yet you are as if my life is a TV show you watch solely to hate. If you have a problem with how I live my life then you are free to not be in it. Yet you insert yourself and make everything I do your business. Your shortcomings and insecurities are not my issue to solve. If you feel the need to interpret every little thing as an affront against you then you should probably work on yourself. I do not write for you but as the saying goes, if the shoe fits….

I’m sure you have a life. I’m sure you have a family or friends that you could devote this time to. I’m sure there are a million better things for you to do. Things you may actually be good at. Your punches are weak, and I’m not interested in placating you anymore. I am no one’s punching bag. And you are not the prize fighter you like to think you are.