Since I ditched my public Twitter account, most people have stopped talking about/at me. Slowly, the @-replies to the now-dead account dwindled. People forgot. But David Johnson didn’t! It seems every few weeks he’s gripped by such an uncontrollable rage about my existence that he has to Tweet about it.
Above you’ll find three choice highlights, from both post- and pre-Twitter deletion. The @_struct Tweetstream is truly the gift that keeps on giving to my saved search feed.
So, I thought I’d write a little letter to David, since he often takes the time and trouble to do the same for me. Here goes…
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Dear, dear David, what was it I did that inspired such an enduring hatred of me? Was it because I had an opinion? I’m sorry, David: I’m sorry that people pay critics to have opinions and I’m sorry that I also expressed them, unpaid, on the internet. It was a thoughtless thing of me to do.
I’m sorry you think I smell like a full sanitary pad, David; Yves Saint Laurent’s In Love Again has many notes, but I didn’t realise that one of them was “menstrual blood”. How silly of me! I wasn’t aware that you knew what I smelled like, but then again, perhaps you sniffed me from afar one night. Perhaps your internet service provider uses Smell-O-Vision.
I’m sorry, also, that I dared to attend a business meeting that happened to be at one of your favourite cafes. If only I had known in advance that said cafe was your exclusive territory, I could have told the book publisher I was meeting that a take-away in the office would have sufficed! Again, I’m sorry, David. (I’m sure I can speak for Skaifey as well when on his behalf I say sorry he chose to have a coffee there that day, too.)
So, in closing, I’m sorry, David. I’m so sorry your wish for 2012 didn’t get to come true.
the outspoken, opinionated arsehole that you love so much xox