That what you read here is half of my half of the story.
You read what I choose to share.
From my perspective.
You’ve never heard Sir’s side of the story about our interactions.
You read me.
Sometimes in the midst of an emotional turmoil.
Sometimes it is raw and the feelings are still with me.
Sometimes I embellish.
Sometimes I edit.
Oftentimes, I omit.
You read a product.
An account of my interactions,
In and out of order,
With a person whose identity I seek to protect,
Even above my own.
This is a serialized telling of my life with him.
I leave you with half chapters.
And some of you… some of you
who I’ve never even interacted with
choose to believe you’ve read the whole book.
And in your heads, you paint him the villain
you paint me the villain
You make assumptions about our identities.
About why I stay anonymous.
About the realities of our situation.
And this is good.
I want you to wonder.
I want you to make up stories in your head.
To fill in the gaps.
To think of Fatal and Sir as what they are:
Characterizations of two real, flesh and blood people.
But if you think that your filler
makes for good fodder
to feed into my sensitive heart…
If you are an asshole who is seeking to hurt me
I want you to know
that I don’t give a fuck about you,
or your assumptions.
That my heart is sensitive for people that I care about.
But I am dead inside
for those who try to cross me.
That’s not an embellishment.
Nor is it a warning.
It is a statement of fact.
I grow weary of PSAs.
And I feel like I shouldn’t even waste my time with them.
The people who email me their opinions don’t even have the balls to say them in an open forum.
So why do I give them the head space or the blog space?
Because it’s my blog.
And I do as I damn well please.
My new email is FatalSyndrome@mail.com
Please take note.