This thought always comforts me, rudely, fiercely, whenever people direct anon hate to me on tumblr:

There is a person so passionately enraged by me, so disgusted by what I do, that he has to take a moment to let me know. He could have just shrugged it off and watched TV; he could have let out his frustrations in a game of cricket; he could have even, maybe, just aimed to be better than me, or even just leave me to fail.

Instead, he insisted that he had to let me know that he was thinking only of me. That’s a sick kind of flattery - to know that even in debilitating hate, this person only has eyes, red though they may be, for me. To know that I am on their mind, that I consume their thoughts, even just for a moment. (O, all the things they must imagine doing to me!)

I’m not sure if I like it, but I damn well know I’m not going to let them get to me when clearly I can get a rise out of them with no effort whatsoever.