Hi there, you worthless human being. You are a waste of elements. You are using precious life energy to wreak evil on all you touch.
You can be very proud of yourself. You changed me. I was once a beautiful soul. I once trusted, loved and gave all I could to my little world. You stomped on that. I have risen above your paranoia and I’m back with people. But, the other day I found out you were gravely ill. And I laughed. I laughed. I hope that the universe and karma forgive me for that. I hope that, should there actually be a great power watching, that it forgives me for how callous and cold I can be to a person who was once my life.
But I took great pleasure in knowing you were alone and sick. Your family is not interested in you. Your children don’t even speak to you. You are too old, needy and unattractive to snare anything but the most basic and desperate of women. This will not be hard as you live in a country where whores are a dime a dozen. And I laugh at this as well. You, who had a woman who created two businesses for you to suck from. You, who had a bestselling author wife who just couldn’t make ‘enough’ for you. You who had a master chef, a
doting lover and a thoughtful friend. Now, you are faced with the winter of your life feeding rice and beans to someone who cannot even speak your language. Just for the warm body in your bed. Thanks, but my cat is a better bedfellow. I don’t need a dick. Not in the real or the vernacular sense.
I know you don’t miss me in the classical way of the word. But it can’t be easy for a man so proud of his trophy and her awesome talents (always claimed as yours, of course) to live without the Grey Goose and the Cuban cigars. Oh, how it gives me such pleasure to go to the local weed store (DOPE, how you hated it! hahahahaaha) knowing you would shit a blue brick. What sweet revenge it is every time I light up a joint. I live in Colorado now, so I can do this legally. No one cares. I am, of course, an addict (that would be your Reefer Madness mentality). You are so very, very ridiculous with your schedules–what we ate, drank, smoked, etc. A nice glass of the Goose? Only after five. A rich Cohiba? One, shared, and only after five. I delight in drinking a glass of wine with lunch, you control freak. Every time I do something that isn’t part of your ‘world’ I rejoice. I watch sitcoms. I eat toast at three a.m. I take naps. I sometimes go to bed really late. The cat is welcome in my bed. I eat what I want when I want. Every day I have new things to be thankful for.
Nevermind that you can’t stretch your lousy SS benefit and MY income is quite fine, thank you very much. I don’t need to suck off someone else’s tit. What are you doing today to better yourself? I wrote thousands of words today that I will sell. So there.
You don’t own me. Not anymore. I have no one to ‘report’ on the day’s earnings from books wrought from my own head. My stuff. You tried to steal it all the night I left, remember? I have no one now who thinks he can choose my cover art. You have never read my books, for god’s sake! I am still grappling with how I allowed a moron to take over a damn good business I built. That’s my personal issue and I take responsibility for it. Never again. I am the master of my fate and I am the author and marketer of my books.
You hated my family. You hated my friends. You hated people. These days, I can barely take a breath now without a kid, a grandchild, a sister calling upon the vast supply of love I have and wasted on your sorry ass. And I give to them. Endlessly and without any regrets. How very, very tragic that anyone is so bereft of feeling as to lose their family as you have done. As I write this, I drift into feeling sorry for you. How idiotic of me.
I buy my grandchildren toys and clothes. I make great ‘Mom’ dinners. I loan my children money when they need it. You would have a fit. You hated any attention and especially any money I spent on my loved ones. That hundred dollars that put food on my son’s table would have bought you a fancy shirt. Fuck you. I’d rather have a basket of Goodwill costumes for the granddaugthers. Fuck you twice.
It would be something else if you were smart or productive or anything worthwhile. But instead you are a tick. Not only do you prey upon those whose blood you suck, but you spread disease. You did spread your disease to me. I know this as I read the account of your illness and laugh. I am appalled I can hate someone as much as I hate you. I didn’t know I had such venom in me. You created a small monster in me. I am going to kill it, come what may. And, the saving grace is that you don’t even know the monster you made inside me. I’ve done my work. I’ve ignored your sorry excuse for a person. I dance with the devil in the pale moon light, but you will never know. I will take the battle on by myself. The secret of my grief, my fear, my anguish and my hopelessness will remain mine. All you
need to know is that I made the bestseller list. Fill in the blanks, douche. Fuck you three times. IN the ass.
In the fullness of time, I trust I will forgive and I do hope forget. In the meantime, I hope you die a death by a thousand pieces. I hope you die by inches. Millimeters. I want you to reap what you have sown. Rot in Hell. Suffer. Be alone, unloved and poverty stricken. You deserve nothing less. I would not piss on you if you were on fire.