To My Fat Aunt DB, Stop Emailing Me

 I just found this old post. As I do not believe that I have any readers, I might as well post it. Post all of it. There is so much gd crap in my head, I need to weed it out. And I need to weed it out so that finally--and yeah, I am prolly dreaming--I can create a concise short story that is poetic in its images and outstanding in its message...

So, here was the crazy rant at a poor, pathetic old woman. Yep, I suck on several levels. It is true and at least I can admit it, right? Trigger Warning: This was written in a decided rage and is graphic and just awful. You will better off not having read it.

Dear Aunt DB, stop, Violet. Ok. Ummm. Ok, I need to back up here a little.

I got screwed in terms of family. I have one amazing son, and well, this is it. I do have a crazy ex husband who is right now my boyfriend. Yep, sometimes I lump him into the mess that is my family. On other days, I include him on the shelf that contains the gem that is my son. How is this for awkward, forced writing that bores even its writer. ???? Yeah, I told you *not* to read this. My fat Aunt DB--my lard assed DB aunt, OK, no, my obese jackfuck aunt, DB fucktwat aunt keeps emailing me. She ostensibly wants to know why I am cut off from everyone in our douche of a family.

Really? She is not concerned, do not let her fool you. I am sure you may be fooled, as she is a fat, hideous unemployable former fourth grade teacher with cancer. And she has low status in our family; her own son does not want her over for Christmas, it's true. I am coming to this conclusion: I suck for being mean. And you prolly think so , too, right? Yet I continue in the same vein, as I am prolly have tourette syndrome on top of everything else, emotional tourette. But to continue about my aunt, and my mean little depiction of her, her personality, and her sad little life: she is this annoying. Her needy emails are really a pathetic attempt to connect to a human being. And I get this. I've been lonely, too. But her lack of awareness in terms of her motives grates on my very last nerve. But mostly, her attempts at connection are based--almost solely--on her desire to dig for gossip, about me. For this gossip, I know, will at least be a conversation piece at say...my grandmother's for her little pathetic winter visit. Or, maybe, at my father's house for a super, duper, toxic Thanksgiving.

Here is an example of my writing while in a rage... I wrote this in a draft I found about the db, DB Aunt...and really, I have zero idea what it says or even means:

"Violet says this, i's really so sad. Her poor boy did this. Really. They will tak about us, compare my son's fucking reading scores with my annoyingly spoiled probably mentally ill little brother. Sorry, I have better things to do. Um, like blocking your lame as fuck emails from my yahoo account."

Does this above paragraph even make sense? Not so much; however, it is a pretty good example of the way I write when I am batshit angry, more or less. This in some way refers to her going on and on about my brother's alarmingly high scores in reading. But the idea that my family would go on at such length about someone's reading scores, the scores of a third grader, is profoundly nuts, it really is.

So here was a draft of an actual email I wanted to send, but smartly thought better of at the last moment:

Dear Aunt DB (my aunt is not really named DB--or douche bag, umm),

You tell me in these emails that I must be sad to be divorced, to be on my own, to have lost my house. Here is a thought for you lardfuck ugly (and you really *are* a lardfuck): you never even owned a house, apartment dweller lowlife that you are. And, well, yeah, my ex is a big bag of douche most often, but, see, here is the thing: he loves our son. It is true. My ex has done a litany of shitty things to me. I could go on at length. But he pays for everything in addition to child support. Plus, he adores Z. Z is like the moon to this man. Your ex did not even really visit your kids, right? You lose. You, you shitty triple decker inhabiter, you with those ugly kids, your huge, hungry hippo whole derriere lameas-orlameass--fuck existence, you...

I do not like you. Leave me the fuck alone. You smell like my grandmother, too, while I am on a roll of telling you how I feel. The two of you, you smell fat, like a real live fat woman. Gross. The two of you--not weird sisters, but bland unattractive, creepyasfuck lame sisters,--have this persistent diarriah smell of a fat woman who has never seen a day of thin in her entire life. It is the smell of gluttony, of never being wanted, of never being fucked becuase you were hot or even cute. I have been fucked in this way, you, Stupid. I do not care where you've gone on vacation, you boring ugly, as your trip to Europe is less intense than the way I attracted men. Certainly, I was never a beauty, but I was damn cute. And you , again, I will tell you this, never saw this sort of life, not even for a nanosecond. You are the woman a man closes his first to put his dick into. [Note to self or to my lone reader: what does that man? I do not know. Another crazy description created in an overly, crazy irate mind, I guess.] That,the weird fist closing reference in relation to fat chick fucking, my fat loquatious aunt, that is you. Nobody, expect maybe your doctor, has ever even seen your fat lady twat. I lathe you. I have never enjoyed your company. Everyone in our shitty, narcissistic or borderline-y family hates you and finds you ridiculously odious. Please stop trying to insert your fatness into my life.

Stop fucking emailing me. Now.

Never Yours,

Violet