An Open Letter to a Bitch I Hate

They say hate hurts us more than anyone we hate.

Hate doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s a slow-growth process, like mold on Twinkies or McDonald’s fries.

In this case, bitch, I hate you.

I hate you with a pure passion nearly rivaling the love I’ve felt for those I’ve loved in my life. I hate you almost as much as I loved Lali, my baby who died. Lali was a pure spirit of love. I hate you almost as much as I love my daughter, and I love Bruce, and I love my best friends.

For you? You symbolize everything I loathe about the evil people in the world. You aren’t evil like Pol Pot or Robert Mugabe or George Armstrong Custer or Hernan Cortez or Dick Cheney or Catherine the Great or Warren Buffett. No, these are big evil monsters who deserve to burn in Hell.

No matter what lies you tell yourself in your lying lie of a life — you are the embodiment of all the good little soldiers and worker bees that made every single one of those famous evil people — who and what they are. And that’s why part of me can feel slightly sorry for the big evil monsters and hate the fuck out of you.

You bitch.

You put them in the history books. You believed their stories. You tell their stories. Right now you’re pussy hat Russia pussy hat but your counterpart (whom I do not know) is Bill Kristol McCain Russia Cheney no pussy hat.

And you never miss a chance to put someone else down, to talk behind their back, to try to get a little bit of something over on them, to make yourself seem bigger in other people’s eyes.

You are a niggling, small, miserable, soulless creature. You got nothing.

You don’t know what it means that at last, this, after a life in which nearly everyone had a smile, a laugh, some comfort, a helping hand, a nice meal, physical pleasure, or — a job, an opportunity, a leg up — from me — if you were to ask me the least thing, I would, with great pleasure, say,


If I saw you in person I would slap your vain, self-absorbed face. I might even throw you down and commence kicking in your ribs and teeth.

And as a survivor of violent crime and peace advocate, it’s pretty awful that I say that.

But you, bitch,

deserve it.

Hot Damn! I feel fantastic.

According to Harlan Ellison and my grandmother, “You’ll go far Amy, because you have heart.” Author of 40 books, former exec., Nebula Award nominee, Poor.

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