You come into my house, firing your gun in the air like you’re some sort of cowboy. You think that you’re going to scare me, that you’re going to disrupt what I’m doing. But this is my house. My rules.
You can make noise but you can’t hurt me. The laws of physics don’t apply here. I control the limits of what happens. You can fire your gun into the air but I have things set up so eventually you have to put the gun down on the table. You don’t have any choice about that. And what do I do with that gun I’ve forced you to put down?
I put it in your fucking mouth and I pull the fucking trigger.
You gave me that power. You placed all your being into that stupid hater comment. You can lie all you like but it doesn’t change the truth. Everything that’s you is in there and now I can destroy you. I can choose my method as well: I can spray your entrails all over the walls or I can simply erase you from existence.
None of your protestations to the contrary matter. None of your false bravado means anything. You have declared to the world that you are utterly meaningless. You have told everyone that you’re scared of me. I have something you could never have. I do things you could never conceive of doing. You’re desperately jealous. And desperately afraid. It’s that fear and sense of inadequacy that makes you lash out.
You delude yourself that this tells the world how strong you are, how you’re above it all, how you’re keeping it real. All you’ve really done is write in letters 100 feet high: “I’m scared.” And for those who say it’s only the internet, it doesn’t count, I’m only doing it “for the lulz” – you’re partly right.
You don’t count.
You don’t count and you never will until you come to terms with some simple concepts like respect and basic human decency. Without that, you’ll never be any more than a passing annoyance that’s instantly forgotten. Treading in dogshit has a more lasting impact than your comments. When I scrape the dogshit off, the smell lingers a while. When I destroy you in comments, when I delete your comments, when I block you… you’re gone. You cease to have any relevance.
At least the dogshit served a productive purpose once.
So I’ve got your number. You’ve got nothing. And I don’t care. I don’t want you to change. I don’t want you to apologise. Because that would change nothing. You still wouldn’t count for shit. You can continue to delude yourself for your whole life as far as I’m concerned. That won’t change the truth. You desperately wish you had what I have.
And you’ll never have anything I want.