I should be amused at the response to the brief story I put on here the other day. I should be in prime position to mock calls that I'm sick and disturbed, despite the fact that I wrote that piece solely to dig into character background for a larger piece I'm thinking of writing.

Instead, the fact that I'm managing to continue typing this entry, rather than forcing this keyboard through the screen in sheer rage is testament, I think, to both the level of self-control I am able to demonstrate at need and also the level to which the ignorance required to berate me for writing fiction really gets under my skin. I have to admit, I really misjudged that one.

But I'll say this - I'm not sorry. I don't feel concerned about the thoughts required to commit such a piece to words and post it onto a public diary. Go ahead and crucify me all you want. All you do with every ill-conceived and incomprehending word is tell me how little you understand me. All you do with your misplaced vociferous ranting is tell me how much better I am than you.

Hate me. Berate me. Condescendingly mock me. Insult me. Come on, bring it on, don't hold back.

Feed my superiority.

All you achieve is convincing me to write something you'll like even less. And when you read that too, despite hating everything you've read so far, maybe, just maybe, something will click. I hope against hope that the irony of seeking out something you abhorr just to see if it can offend you and give you cause to complain somehow finds its way into your understanding.

I wait for that day. For all the entertainment I draw from your inability to understand me at the most basic level, the time when you at least understand the fact that you're trying your hardest not to know me really can't come soon enough.

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