Words can’t describe how much I detest your writings now… I used to like your work, but I now think you are a fake…
I was shocked when I read a four-letter word in one of your stories… You are profane and our Holy God is going to exact judgement upon all those who profane...
I want you to pay close attention when I say this, because this might be difficult for you to understand:
You cannot make me hate you.
If you get nothing else from this letter, I hope you remember this. No matter what you think of me, no matter what kind of eternal flaming Lake Superior you think I’m bound for, you can’t make me dislike you.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you coming to my barbecue, necessarily. But then again, you wouldn’t have a good time at my party anyway. There are usually a lot of flagrant Episcopalians there.
Anyway, do you want to know something? Do you know what my first reaction was when I received your eloquent
letter? If I’m being totally honest with myself, I felt kind of afraid.
“Whoa!” I was thinking. “Am I am a big fake? Is this guy right about me? Maybe he is!”
And I was genuinely scared. Isn't that pathetic? Maybe you think I’m a big old wuss for admitting this.
Don’t answer that.
The embarrassing truth is, I’ve been afraid for most of my life. In fact, growing up I was almost always afraid.
You’d have to know me to understand this. I had a traumatic childhood. I don’t want to rehash it here because it doesn’t matter. Lots of people blame things on messed up childhoods. I’m not going to do that.
Certainly, I could blame my irrational fears on the fact that my father was mentally unstable and killed himself in my uncle’s garage…