Memos I Don't Recall Receiving: Anonymous Stalkers Can Kiss MY ASS

  1. The one telling me other people would be entitled to have a say in the parenting of the children who came out of my vagina. You want to parent some kids? Have some of your own. You already had some of your own? Take a look at how they turned out. I’m having my turn. You don’t like the color of my daughter’s hair, don’t like how I educate them, don’t think I cook them the right foods, have any input whatsoever that says I’m “doing it wrong”? Unless I asked for your input, I can guarantee that I don’t care what you have to say. I’m having my turn at this. Take your own turn, preferably off my damn lawn.

  2. The one telling me other people got to tell me how to spend my money. It’s mine. It’s not yours. I don’t ask you how you spend your money. I don’t write about your spending habits on twitter, because, quite frankly, they’re none of my goddamn business. I don’t ask to see your financial statements when you blast me for buying a pair of shoes. My financial decisions do not concern you unless I’m asking you to support my ass, which I’m not. I have not. Not once. I’d rather die than ask you for one red cent. You aren’t my CPA. You aren’t my financial planner. You aren’t my children. I do not owe you an explanation about one penny I spend. In fact, you’re just an anonymous fuck. A coward.

  3. The one entitling an “anonymous” fuck to insist I’m the one “hiding” when he/she/it has neither the balls nor the ovaries to show a face or name when attacking my family. Your manifestos are not clever. Your IP address is not always disguised. Your rhetoric is redundant, tiresome, and ill-informed. It is the result of being out-of-the-loop, cut from the herd, just the mosquito in our ears—annoying, but insignificant. Keep on believing what you believe. We don’t need you to believe anything else. You aren’t our family. You don’t live inside these four walls. You’ll never be welcome here. You are not worth the oxygen you waste.

Fortunately, the stalker’s attacks make my family stronger. They bring us closer together. My children realize the attacks are ludicrous. My daughter asks people how they like her “cry-for-help” hair with a giant grin on her face. My son regularly points out that my life is my business, not his. He wants to respond to the inaccuracy of the attacks, but I’ve told him that it’s not worth his energy to argue with crazy. Such maturity for a kid who’s supposedly being neglected by a mother making her way around the country on a drunken-orgy tour. The funny thing is, they live in this house, not the Anonymous Fuck. They know what actually happens here. That’s all that matters. That’s the beauty of it all. No justification needed.