A Love Letter to My Hate Mailers

February 16, 2014 — 132 Comments

Broken Heart

Dear Anonymous:

You reached a new low this weekend – trying to contaminate my quiet day of mourning for a dead girl.

Telling me it was too bad it wasn’t ME that died instead of a writer I worshipped and was lucky enough to spend a joyous, incredible summer with.

What exactly is UP with the hate mail?

Are you trying to intimidate me?

Look, I’m no Sarah Connor, cinematic badass and pullup queen extraordinaire.

sarah-connors-o

root of my pullup obsession

But it’s going to take more than emails to get drive me off WordPress.

 

It’s actually the height of irony that I AM in fact, still alive.

I grew up in one three white families in one of the shittiest housing projects of the five boroughs of New York City.

Which, to quote Wu Tang, “Ain’t Nuthing Ta F’Wit.”

There were three reasons to stop playing outside:

1. Your mama called

2. Outside lights came on

3. Gunshots

A bullet to the knee cap really fucked up a Skelly game.

skelly

bottle cap game played by inner city kids

 

So, guns and death threats don’t particularly scare me.

I find it amusing when people cross the street simply because a large African American man is headed their way.

You know who’s really scary? Not Leroy.

Leroy’s FUCKING WIFE.

When he gets home and she starts in with that NECK ROLL, and SUCKS HER TEETH at him, in that way that only black (and Dominican) chicks do really well, and gets up in his grill,

“Motherfucka, you jumped a turnstile for WHAT? To brang me this cold fish dinner?!”

Leroy starts quaking in his green Osiris. True that.

Yeah, I could jump a turnstile back in the day

Yeah, I could jump a turnstile back in the day

 

And those fierce black housing project princesses used to chase me down and beat me up every day. Because I was what? Skinny? Nerdy? White?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

They’d lean over their desks in those nasty portable classrooms that were NEVER warm in the winter, and mouth at me “just let me get you.”

At 3:00 I’d RUN. Or try and find one of my brothers.

Usually, they’d be getting their asses beat, too. We’d get home and brag about who got beat up the worst.

 

In college, I didn’t start off roommates with my BFF freshman year.

She was a tough-ass housing project girl from the South Bronx who knew cinder block and gun play.

We had lame Midwestern girls for roommates, girls who listened to Milli Vanilli and used sanitary napkins instead of tampons, for fuck’s sake.

We met at a dorm social. And when we locked eyes, we were like Tony and Maria in West Side Story.

Every one else fell away. We murdered those lame bitches asked for a transfer and moved in with each other.

And we played Russian Roulette with our lives on a regular basis.

Why should we finance Greyhound when we could just stick our thumbs out on the Major Deegan Expressway in the Bronx and hitch hike back to school?

Jump in a van filled with five guys? Yay! We got ourselves “The Real World!”

“This is the true story of seven strangers picked to drive COMPLETELY DRUNK in a van…

…Find out what happens when they do hallucinogenics and break out into a game of quiddich.”

We’d get them to drive us straight to our town – to our door.

And invite them IN. Where they’d stay, sometimes for DAYS.

 

Once, we got into a car with a cowboy from Montana.

We’re somewhere on Route 80, and Cletus McPigFucker very nonchalantly reached under his seat.

And pulled out a shotgun, placed it on the dashboard, and continued to chat with us. While he stroked his gun, like a penis.

Or a dog.

Or a penis.

We took off running at the next rest stop, hopping over the guard rails and bushwacking through the high grass.

For the rest of my life, I will remember the sight of my BFF running like an escaped convict, high jumping the guard rails.

 

At least when I got jumped on the platform of the D train, I could SEE who my opponents were.

One brother held me while the other put a knife to my throat and snatched a gold chain off my neck.

I don’t know what would have happened next if my Guardian Angels hadn’t saved me.

Not the spiritual Deep-pockets Chopra kind, the Curtis Sliwa kind.

Rocking the whole uniform; the beret, the red jacket over tight white tee with that Guardian Angels logo.

Not my Angels - but they kept NYC subways safe

Not my Angels – but they kept NYC subways safe

 

And I ended up dating one of them, too. But mostly because he was a drummer and because the uniform was HOT.

I wasn’t always so lucky.

Wattie, the lead singer from a death metal hardcore punk thrash band from Scotland- The Exploited – swaggered into the record store near my apartment and invited my fishnet stockings and mini skirt to watch them perform that night, as his guest.

Wattie in the men's room (none of your business)

Wattie in the men’s room (none of your business)

 

So, I brought Lisa, my coke dealer Harold’s 16-year-old girlfriend, who I was stuck babysitting, while he did coke

Unfortunately, we were enraging all the territorial death metal hardcore punk thrash chicks – particularly Lazar, the leader.

A scary creature with upside down crosses tattooed on her face.

How does one get a job with ink like that? Is that not an issue?

And when we left the club, Wattie invited us into the van to continue the party at their hotel. I peeked in – 10 drunken band members and roadies.

Hmmm, this didn’t look like Bay City Rollers Scottish,

this looked like Gang Bang Scottish. We declined the ride, said we’d catch a cab and turned around

To face Lazar and her pack of rabid dog women from hell, who “demanded our leathers” (a British punk thing; they rob your leather jackets),

and then PROCEEDED TO KICK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF US.

Back then, Doc Martens didn’t come with girly roses on them,

Yeah  - NO

Yeah – NO

They were BLACK and had fucking STEEL in the toe.

We ended up in the hospital with broken ribs, a busted collarbone. a concussion and black eyes.

Harold was pissed.

 

My point is, I’ve been in some actual scary situations.

So, excuse me if my first reaction to your emails is to break out the red pen of my cerebral cortex and start correcting.

What language are you WRITING in? Yellow LEDBETTER?

You don’t seem to know a “you’re” (contraction) from a “your” (possessive pronoun) and my son already knows that. And he’s ten.

Now I totally lost my train of thought

Now I totally lost my train of thought

 

Oh, right-

I’m sorry it bothers you that I have so much to write about. I guess that’s why I’m a Hot Bitch On the Internet.

My blog is my HOME. I’ll write what I please.

If I want to write that I was ass-fucked by Kris Kringle in Macy’s window (34th St side), I will.

You no likey, you no read. Click. That’s what your opposable thumbs are for.

You’ll find they come in handy, once you step down as captain of the “USS WHAT THE FUCK” and do something useful.

Besides hurling CPS threats at me, which are getting as OLD as your snatch hair.

 

Your factually uncluttered hyperbole regarding the details of my life makes me wonder, why me?

You know nothing about ME.

Or about ANYTHING. I’ve been surrounded by YOU by whole life.

Idiots who think they can wax philosophic about Haile Selassie because they know how to tie on a Jamaican flag bandanna as a doo rag between huge bong hits.

 

But really, why ME??

I’m not well known.

I don’t have a huge following.

I’M NOBODY.

I’m a faceless cog pushing a cart in Whole Foods.

I’m a nameless mailbox in the frozen tundra of suburban wasteland with school cancelled yet ANOTHER snow day.

With a sniffily ADHD 10 year old, hopped up on so much Sudafed, he’s Breaking Bad in my family room.

If he doesn’t stop talking through Full House I’m going to have to remove his larynx with a blunt spoon.

I’M NOBODY AT ALL.

Tapping at her computer when I can. My kid just blew his nose and presented me with the contents of his tissue – that was the “Big Event” of the evening.

And the hottest thing that’s happened to me in the last month was getting a lady boner over the fact that Anthony Kiedis is still immensely fuckable at 51.

 

To accuse me of being an “attention whore” is to make no accusation at all. WELCOME TO WORDPRESS.

Aren’t we all spreading our proverbial legs open just for a fix of attention? Isn’t that the point of blogging?

Exactly what is it you want from me??

If you want me to leave, I’m not. Writing is how I breathe.

If you’re trying to get me to not believe in myself, it’s been done already. This is, at best, an amateur effort.

 

I don’t know whether to slap you upside the head, cradle you to my breast…or cook for you.

I suppose,

love you is what I have to do. I just blogged about that, right? That love is the answer.

To do anything else makes me look like a hypocrite.

Love is the the universal force that unites us all.

 

You just make it so damn hard to love you.

 

Deep breath.

 

Regroup.

I know food. I know music.

So, come in. Wipe your feet.

We’re listening to the blues today. If Little Dude wants to play air guitar to “Lonely Boy,” he has to know Muddy Waters.

I hope you like beef stew. There’s enough for all of us

IMG_1391[1]

 

And homemade biscuits. Pull up a chair.

IMG_1399[1]

 

 

Seriously, I got nothing, people.
But you can talk to me. I’m listening.

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132 responses to A Love Letter to My Hate Mailers

  1. 

    Great post, fuck the haters. There seems to be an open season with them recently, though mine are not nearly as nasty as yours are. Glad you are staying around.

    Now what I find most disturbing…those Docs have to be photoshopped, right?

    • 

      I wish, Chica.

      I still have my 20 year old ones. But dang- that steel makes ’em impractical to get around it.

      Very fun in a mosh pit, though. Not a DEATH mosh pit- a regular mosh pit- you feel me?

      • 

        I do get you, though I was a little too shy to get down in the action πŸ™‚

        (Hope you are feeling better today, BTW)

      • 

        I did a bit, every now and then. Sometimes it happened involuntarily hahahaha.

        Yep, it’s a new day, and Life Goes On. And friends like you who cared about me yesterday really helped, chica. Love you.

  2. 

    There’s our girl!
    Sounds like you have the jackasses well in hand

    You’re introducing your boy to Buddy Guy too, right?
    Right???

    • 

      Yes, Buddy Guy!

      And anyone else you’d care to suggest, or better yet, send me!! (Not live, a link, although I wouldn’t turn down a live performance right now)

  3. 

    “Aren’t we all spreading our proverbial legs open just for a fix of attention? Isn’t that the point of blogging?” Now that I know this is an option, I definitely won’t be giving up on my blog; I could use a fix.

    I’m in no fear of being the object of haters’ fuckwittage, but if ever I was, I’d hope to handle it with as much humor, aplomb and generosity (I love stew!) as you.

  4. 

    Love reading your posts, and once I start, I have to read it til the end. I agree with everyone above. Fuck the haters, you’re way better than them. (And yes, nothing more pathetic than an adult with poor grammar skills that even a 10-year-old could best!) I’m glad you use your life experiences to inspire you instead of allowing them to oppress you. Good for you for not staying down!

  5. 

    Really awesome. Please keep writing and breathing.

  6. 

    The haters live a lonely life, while you have your life with the Little Dude, glorious beef stew and hot biscuits. You win. You win. You win. Screw you, hater. Do not mess with my friend Samara.

  7. 

    It takes a really wise soul to know that these people just need to be loved in some extent. Love is the hardest thing to do a lot of the time, but in my experience it’s the only thing that you can really take to the bank.

  8. 

    Hey, people hate… it is the one thing that anybody can do, no matter how stupid. And it is even easier to do it anonymously. That doesn’t require brains or guts.

  9. 

    Mmmm could I have a bowl of your stew and a plate those biscuits please, they look delicious.

    As regards what others say, the only thing you’re responsible for is your emotional response. Which I think you have in balance.

    Really enjoy reading your shared thoughts

    Thanks

    Kit

    • 

      I cook most every day, and if you were in the area, you’d be welcome to join us.
      My kid has someone (at least one) here everyday, so I make lots.

      Cooking relaxes me.

      Thanks for your support; it means so much to me.

      • 

        Maybe next time I’m in the area. I’ll make & bring some sour dough bread & a few beers

      • 

        Yes.

        We like to bake bread, don’t we?

      • 

        Yeah cooking is, like you say, therapeutic, & bread making especially so. Cooking for others is best though

      • 

        Cooking is for others is, me, a pure expression of love.

        Not always- not when I’m pressed for time and when I’ve just got to get us fed.

        But when I can spend a snowed in Saturday making the world’s best beef stew and homemade biscuits?
        That is LOVE.

        Wanna know my secret ingredient for the stew?

      • 

        Food & love are so closely entwined

        I’d love to know your secret ingredient for a perfect stew

        I get well grumpy when I’m hungry. My kids have a field day taking the Mick out of me when I get back from cycling (burn off almost 2000 calories in 4hrs!!!). I have to take masses of food with me to stave off the hunger. I had a silver haired cute old lady pull out on me at the end of a 70 mile ride today. The outcome wasn’t nice. You could use me as a verbal anti hater…not that I think you need much back-up haha

      • 

        Well, don’t tell anyone…

        You use chicken stock- not beef. All the best chefs do.

        Stock, not broth. Chicken stock gives the stew an other worldly flavor. My son and his friends devoured that!

        Sshhh….

      • 

        Just been listening to Punks not Dead by the Exploited (Vinyls a bit scratchy). Took me back. I went see the Sex Pistols in ’79 (about) at Leicester University. When I say “see” its not quite true, as after a whole lot of agro Jonny Rotten came on stage & told us that they “…weren’t going to perform to a bunch of privileged wankers, so you best just fuck off…” Brilliant night. Please send thanks to the catalyst of your blog for bringing back some epic memories

      • 

        True Johnny Rotten fashion, I’m told. And read about.

        Even in the late 80s early 90’s punk was alive and well. I was so lucky to have had an older brother who gave me a 45 single of Patti Smith covering Hey Joe when I was 11.

        Life changer.

        That’s a blog post in my drafts.

      • 

        Patti Smith with shock of raven black hair yes. I’ve the image of her, on the album Horses, burnt into my mind from staring at it as a kid

        I’ll look forward to that blog, can’t wait

      • 

        To Patti Smith On Her 61st Birthday.

        We went to see her in concert that night.

        There’s the sneak preview. Now you’ve pried 2 secrets out of me.

      • 

        SIXTY ONE !

        I’ve great respect for PS great activist as well as a truly gifted artist.

        Although I went to see almost every punk concert, large & small, in my area I don’t think I saw Patti.

        My ears are whining ship wrecks from the aural assaults of my youth. My body still reverberating with recollected musical memories.

        I love the fact that you give up your secrets so readily

        Thank you for the enrichment

        Kit

      • 

        In my Sunshine Award post, I quote something she said to us that night, when she had us all in a frenzy-

        about how in this time of hardship, we need not have intellectual poverty. She urged us to play, create, to be free- something like that. I don’t quite remember it.

        But that night- oh my God. It was Patti Smith, in downtown NYC. Her home. On her birthday. In my old NYC neighborhood. With college friends from years ago, who discovered and loved Patti with me.

        It was an epic night. Her voice sounds better than ever. She rocks a crowd like a 21 year old.

      • 

        Hi S, couldn’t find your blog titled Sunshine Award. Will keep trying. Tnx

      • 

        If I wasn’t on my phone, I’d post the link.

  10. 

    Love that you chose to end with love. πŸ™‚

  11. 

    THE EXPLOITED! Upon reading that I actually (almost actually) jumped up on my chair in this quaint coffee shop that I’m sitting in, and I actually (still almost actually) kicked over the table that my laptop and phone are on. They were (almost, yes) soaked by the coffee that was sitting next to them, but I don’t care (actually, yes, I do care.)

    You take a red pen to those haters.

    • 

      You know The Exploited?

      Where do you live that you get to blog in quaint coffee shops (she asks jealously?)

      • 

        I’m in Syracuse, New York.

        I LOVE The Exploited.

        If you need a frame of reference for me, reference the movie SLC Punk. I’m like Jason Segel’s chacter, but more of a pretty boy. When it’s revealed that I love punk, hardcore, and metal people have such a surprised look on their faces.

      • 

        I don’t go by the way people look; more by the fact that Wattie and I met when you were 10.

        He’s not his onstage personna; he’s a sweet man and was distraught about what had happened.

        We stayed in touch for about a decade and then, you know- I moved to the burbs, pushed out a kid, yadda yadda yadda-
        but he is still touring, kicking ASS and taking NAMES.

      • 

        πŸ™‚

        This is why judging people by their covers–tattoos, hair, features and etc–just doesn’t make sense. Glad I’m following your blog.

      • 

        Likewise, darling.

        I’m disguised as a suburban mom. It’s just a ninja strategy. Self preservation and all that.

  12. 

    What a sadness that some poor lonely sap has nothing better to do with his/her time than to write hate mail. What a waste of time. There is so much of life to be experienced and more ways to have fun than trolling someone via emails. I can’t help it, Samara. I’m filled with pity for your tormentor, whoever they are. How sad that they seem unable to find anything else in the vast world that is more interesting and fun than writing poorly written emails to someone they don’t even know on the internet.
    *shakes her head*
    Sad. πŸ˜₯

  13. 

    Samara, it’s not about them it’s about you…and your responses. I’m with Mark and Art. For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. I’m sure each message knocks you down but you get back up again…that’s not easy. You’re strong. You’re beautiful. You’re proud. Thank you for not allowing one small mind to take your magnificent words from us, which would be the easy choice to make (as others have done), your voice is important to us. Whomever is doing this to you is disrespecting their own cause, eventually they will see this and stop. In the meantime, stew! And Stevie Ray Vaughan. Love RED

  14. 

    Samara, these people are being hateful because they’re jealous. They’re jealous you got recognition they didn’t. They’re jealous you have skills they don’t. They’re jealous you’ve done things they haven’t. They’re just petty, jealous bitches. Don’t let them get to you because you ARE a fabulous writer with a beautiful soul. Don’t let these ass-souls dim your light.

    • 

      TD-
      I hear what you’re saying- and thank you-
      But HAD. DID.

      I’m just a mommy. Hanging with her kid. A never was, is my point. There are so many fucking famous people to hate on, for fucks sake- it’s laughable.

      But I make a great beef stew. What til I cook for you. You’ll be my best friend for sure!

      • 

        Yes, you’re a mommy. You’re also a fantastic writer who has gotten a lot of recognition in the short time you’ve been here. Sadly, there are people here shallow and petty enough to be jealous of that. Small, pathetic little beings who crave the recognition you have gotten and haven’t. They only thing I can guess is that they’re miserable little shitstains and their hatemail is an attempt to make you as miserable as they are. It’s stupid.

      • 

        Again, thank you.

        But I’m no TwinDaddy!

        You really are so sweet- did I just ruin the reputation behind the menacing gravatar???

  15. 

    Those biscuits look pretty damned good. I guess you are pretty semi-famous, if you’re getting hate mail. Hate mail is a sign that you’ve made it, It think. I only get hate mail from my Italian family members. Maybe I’ll try to love them as you suggest and see how it works out. Enjoy your stew, dear.

    • 

      Who could hate you, handsome?

      If it’s any consolation, my ex’s sisters hated me until I loved them to death. Love works.

      I’m not semi, almost or anywhere near famous. I have barely any followers. I just have bad fucking luck, is what I have.

      Next time, join us for some stew.

  16. 

    This stew looks really good. I am tempted to send some anonymous hate mail myself just to try some of that. πŸ™‚

    • 

      X, love, you don’t need to send me hate mail to get yourself invited for a hot meal.

      I should really throw a big east coast shin dig and cook for y’all-

      I have NO clue why I just went Paula Deen on you. But there it is.

      • 

        Oh good, what a relief. The two things I have no idea how to do is cooking and sending anonymous e-mail.
        An east coast blogger get-together would be really cool – if I’ve translated “shin dig” and “y’all” correctly. The only one I knew of was in Austin, TX, and that too far away.
        I’m not sure why you channeled Paula Deen, but probably because she was also known for her cooking and for getting a lot of hate mail. πŸ™‚

      • 

        Y’all are so freakin’ clever-

        My backyard would probably not hold all of us, but it would certainly piss off the neighbors if we tried! Are there a lot of us?

      • 

        The maximum number would be the number of your followers. But even excluding the spambots, there are a few real people I can think of within driving distance from NJ.

      • 

        STOP TELLING PEOPLE WHERE I LIVE!

        What are spambots? Are those the bloggers who follow my ADHD post and try and sell me Tory Burch shoes?

        How many East Coasters? Do I like them? Can you bring ones I don’t know? Are they cute? Single? Can you cook? Bartend? Know how to operate power tools?
        DJ? Ride a unicorn? Can we make it a WordPress meetup?

        Cause then I’m definitely fucking not coming.

        Can you get Jimmy Norman to come? He’s the big man of mystery, that one. do your inspector Gadget on him and let’s toilet paper his house.

      • 

        Sorry – please delete that comment or edit it out. I only thought I could say it because I think I saw you mentioning your state somewhere on your blog – maybe even more than once.

        Spambots are blogs that follow you, and their only posts are about selling something. They never comment and generally don’t even “like” anything – they just hope that by following 1000000 people they can get 20000 to follow them back. Some of them are real blogs but they apparently use the same tactic. (WordPress is a neat place).
        I was talking specifically about people who comment on your blog, not just every WP blogger. But I have no idea if they are cute – frankly, I’ve never even thought about that.

      • 

        Yes, I have mentioned where I’m from.

        And every day I wake up in NJ, my soul dies a little more.

        Just my commenters? Why? Why not Trent’s commenters? Or Art’s commenters? Or yours?

        But what do the spambots accomplish by getting followers?

      • 

        Every timeyou go on your blog, you’re no longer in NJ.
        There’s quite an overlap between the people who comment on these blogs πŸ™‚
        Spambots accomplish the same thing we try to do in other ways – get other people to read their blogs.

  17. 

    I want you on my team, woman. You’re not one to mess with.

  18. 

    That hate mailer thinks he/she is brave coming at you via email, when all he/she really wants is your attention. He/she is poking you like some pathetic loser bully.
    What a balless sad little limp prick.
    YOU I adore. YOU are warm, funny, smart, dynamic, and brave. YOU I respect. Immensely.
    xoxo

    • 

      Like I told you before, what I love about you, and hope to absorb from you,
      is your gratitude for life.

      I need more of that. It’s what makes you shine.

  19. 

    I find it funny that you offer stew to someone who has clearly been stewing in their own despair, displaced anger and other emotionally turbulent juices. It’s not chicken stock, but something probably a little bit more…bitter, let’s say. No amount of garlic or tomato paste will soothe that flavour. Hearty hate with a bouquet garni of disdain is what the winter fare consists of in some people’s hearts.

    I find that when things like this come from people, it’s because they are operating out of fear. Fear of something that they want and don’t have, or something that they have and don’t want to lose. That’s pretty much it. Everything flows from those two places. I don’t understand why you would receive such mail like that, but I don’t know that person or what their beef is (no pun intended). You can’t control that. What you can control is your reaction. That’s about it.

    And I love that you come from love. Why not? Hating back won’t do anything that keep stirring it up (again, no pun – I will stop now) and lobbing the grenade back into their court. But love…well, how can you go wrong with that? And that is something I have learned to do over these last few years. Come back with heart. Empathy. Compassion. Doesn’t mean I let someone run over me. I have boundaries, my friend…don’t ya dare trounce on me…but doing what you are doing…that’s the tonic for me. No gin in my tonic these days, but it helps me get to sleep better at night.

    You’ve lived an interesting life (understatement) and have had your share of fears and shit-kickings…oh dear. So yeah, this is small potatoes I imagine. And I would just leave it there. Let them have that in their own pot. (I lied about stopping, by the way). You’re coming from peace. That’s groovy. Certainly things like jealousy, etc. play into these things. But in the end, it’s your blog, your rules, as I tell others.

    You’re not nobody. You are somebody to many people. Don’t play small. But I know what you are saying. In the grand scheme of things, we open ourselves up out here to feel that we’re a part of something. That we’re alive, and that to breathe is to write and to write is to breathe, and frankly, I like breathing. Keeps the blood going…like a head wound from a boot.

    I miss my old docs too…but they certainly don’t have the heritage and history yours did.

    Love the stories… πŸ™‚

    Cheers
    Paul

  20. 

    Very nice and awesome… πŸ˜‰

  21. 
    Aiming for Simplicity February 17, 2014 at 5:11 am

    Go Samara, sock it to the haters… Fuck em all

  22. 

    Cimmorene did not mention that she made biscuits for us last night… well, probably about three hours or so after she commented. They were so so good, even though they were drop biscuits, not rolled (which is usually my preference).

    re: hate mail– *sigh* Don’t take the bait. Bait? Yeah, that’s what trolling refers to. Not Scandinavian monsters that are vulnerable to fire, but as in, they cast out their line to see who takes the (flame)bait. There was a comment on this on Nicki’s blog. Will link up to it in a sec, so this comment doesn’t go to moderation limbo.

    Just sayin’. These fucktwats aren’t like the people you’ve described. They’re cowardly little shits that would likely piss themselves if they actually got beatdowns like that. But online, they will cast their line again and again to see if they can get a reaction. Don’t engage them unless you’ve got a good hacker that will fuck their shit hard and then leave no trace.

  23. 

    Sasquatch’s comment on Nicki’s “The Troll” post: http://nickidaniels.com/2014/02/07/the-troll/#comment-3315

    I think he’s got the cred to back up what he says.

  24. 

    I think the hate mail means you are getting popular, right? But seriously, fuck that asshat.

  25. 

    I just read your entire blog in the course of approx. 4 hours and I can’t see why anyone would hate you. You are funny and courageous and just got a new follower. Me. Keep on writing. Your voice is important!

    • 

      OMG!

      My entire blog???

      That’s high praise!! That’s so incredible!

      Thank you for stopping by – I’m so glad you did! I appreciate your support!

  26. 

    Love, love, love…
    Sorry, got the Beatles stuck in my head still. But, soon it will be Muddy Waters because it does seem like a bluesy kind of day.
    Nice letter. I’d be curious to know what the hate mailers thought of it. I doubt you will get any sort of tangible response. Which is a shame, because I’d like to think that if you could start up some sort of rational discourse with them they would stop spreading their hate. I don’t like that idea that their are trolls that truly enjoy causing others to doubt and worry and feel bad. I don’t like it. But, I know it’s true. And I suspect that the best we can hope from this situation is that they find some new person to torment… not that I would wish that on anyone, but you’ve served your time, you never deserved to serve time in the first place.

  27. 

    I don’t comment much, but had to say that your response to the haters was much kinder than they deserved, but also the best possible way to approach rabid, ignorant trolls who threaten people they don’t even know. Kudos to you…and keep on keepin’ on!

    • 

      Thank you so much for the shout out, sweet still because you don’t comment all that much-

      It’s an aspiration more than a reality. It’s what I strive for – which is still good, right?

      So glad you’re here. Welcome!

      • 

        I should clarify: I have been reading for a while, but I haven’t commented on your posts before because I am awed by the seemingly effortless writing, and I usually can’t respond with anything that seems appropriate. This post was different, the trolls made me mad enough to spit it out.

        Yes, what you strive for, and the fact that you strive for it, is good!

  28. 

    Well shit. So sorry to hear that you’re having to put up with this.

  29. 

    Samara, I jut have to tell you how much I admire your mixture of fire, passion and proper use of grammar, in any context and fueled by any reason. Given the opportunity I will always have your back. And not just to admire the view. Regardless of whether this idiot responds, doesn’t respond or whacks off to your blog post because of the attention he’s getting, you can rest assured your point has been made in a way only you can do. Plus, that stew and biscuits looks fantastic πŸ˜‰

    • 

      Ned.

      Man, you give Good Comment.

      Everything you wrote was just right. Sometimes, it’s just good to know someone has your back, you know?

      Thank you for complimenting the view. It IS my best angle πŸ™‚

      I love to cook! Come over for dinner sometime!

      It’s beyond flattering that you landed on an old post.

      I’m glad we’re friends, Ned. You are definitely one of the Good Guys.

      • 

        Samara, I recently re-shifted my blogging/writing schedule for several reasons, not the least of which was to have more time to read the blogs I enjoy so much. I have a lot of catching up to do. Yours is right there at the top. When I saw the title of your post, I knew where I needed to start.

        I’m glad I did πŸ˜‰

      • 

        Ned, you are so sweet.

        By any chance, do you have a brother? hahahahah

      • 

        Haha! Sorry, I have no brothers. I think they made a law or something…

      • 

        Okay.

        But if you have any friends like you who become single, you let me know first, okay??
        xo,
        S

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