I was going to write a page that said "No. Don't ask," and that was all it was going to say after your name, which I thought would be funny, and which I would also mean.
I guess there aren't many things that I could say that you would think were funny. You hate me. I'm not sure why you spend so much time expressing your hatred of me; almost every day.
I am not as disrespected as you seem to think. By people like you I am; by less ignorant, vicious, shallow people, I'm not.
It seems as if everything that I ever said to or about you that you felt was unfair criticism is something that you've obsessed about while laughing about it to other people. My ignoring you for months or years at a time doesn't seem to make you hate me less, either. You will never lack for people who will tell you what you want to hear. I hope that you realize that people who only tell you what you want to hear are usually the worst people to whom you could listen, and that it won't take a crisis for you to realize it.
How many hours have you and your friends spent watching video of me that was illegally filmed in showers and bathrooms, so you could ridicule me and feel superior to me? Is that what you feel like you need to do because you have no education past high school and never wanted to be educated past high school? "Naked, hairy, pimply, pathetic, old Lena with her fingers in her crotch in a homeless shelter shower; who needs to listen to her?" Is that what you tell yourself every day?
There's nothing that you could say or do that would hurt my feelings; you are such a degenerate that I know that a low opinion from you is an honor that you don't intend. I am sad that you are who you are, though; it's not how I thought you'd be when you were really of adult age. I'm not sad for me about you; I'm sad for you, although I'm sure you'll think that's funny, too.
Copyright L. Kochman, March 17, 2016 @ 1:11 a.m.
