I totally underestimated Lars Eighner’s seriously disturbed hatred of me following me every day for literally a decade. He published my address. I had it shut down and deleted. I never saw his viability as a writer and I rejected his work he threw at Drummer and it was a complete mess.

“I have burned your manuscript. Because there is so much pathology that transcends the magazine’s own stereotypes. Your writing is pathological, and I do not believe a single word of it. You put me in your book and it’s a lie that I knew you well enough for you to visit and stay with me while you enjoyed San Francisco. Lars, I am not sorry you are dead. What you did to me was extreme abuse. Your death threats weren’t even spelled correctly. How was it you were living with me in my house. This is crazy. This stuff you sent me smells like Budweiser. The pages are not numbered. There are bugs in it. I want it off my desk. So I burned it. Would you like the ashes. It reads better when you just mix up all the pages. Kerouac is dead. I knew Jack Kerouac. He was my friend, and you, Lars, are no Jack Kerouac.

Ants crawling up someone’s urethra is just boredom on steroids. I wanted hot. Give me something new no one ever heard of. Masturbation with ants in you and up your rectum is so yesterday. De Sade did it better and on swing sets.” I underestimated how long he would hold a rage that had people on my front steps. Your death threats caused me to move. My lawyers were so not amused. We looked hard at everything you had ever written. I wanted to sue. We were going ahead with it when you sent me the last threat that what had happened to Lars, tragic, only happened to Lars. Remember him (I can’t remember what it was but something likes bones somewhere or maybe a limp). I was told you were living in an apartment complex that was famous. Drug dealing mainly. I am told your walking down the street was painful or was it your shoulder that time or was it your widget you wept over a  rejection of the worst thing I had ever read. 

Lars, I was a name on a piece of paper. I pray you do not come back from the grave. That manuscript was a rant. I know rants. I invented them. There were cigarette ashes. Lars, I blame you for making me start to smoke again. I have never spoken with you like you claim in your book. I don’t know you. You did not know me. Why did you victimize someone you never knew. If you walked past me on the street, I would not know who you were. Lars, I did not believe you were ever homeless. I still don’t believe it, but that’s just me. I’m subjective. Writing itself is subjective, Lars. You wrote to so many people from my past. You sent Mary Scriver (you never knew her either) the kind of focused hatred you sent to me. She would walk around the house screaming. I was her friend back then. You. Hurt. Her. An elderly lady who had been a pastor. Someone you didn’t know. Someone who did not know you. But to get to me, you hurt her. You brought all this wounded animal stuff into a lot of lives. Not one of us is sorry you are gone. You were everyone’s burden.

I asked people to not respond to the rage. I gave you a reason to live. If you responded, it got a lot worse, and right away. They so get it. It hit me like a train (I’m stupid) that if you piss anyone off, the way you did, they’d remember. I did. Everyone in publishing remembers everyone else in publishing. You tried hiding under pseudonyms, but, please, I recognized the meanness immediately and nailed you. I was not famous, Lars, to care. Let alone care with vengeance. You sounded like a bunch of voices in your head. Someone as irrelevant as me was no threat to you. You looked like a fool. All because of a rejection. Had I published what you wrote, I’d be fired on the spot. This is called a rejection. This is called a rejection. Lars, you did not let go easily.

You were mean and overrated. In publishing, it all adds up. I am blacklisted over and ever. It bores me. But I blame you because I need someone to blame. I did not hate anyone I knew. Certainly not with people I only know from a distance. I have always had Google Analytics. Every time you logged into my work (average of five times a day) until you no longer seemed to own a computer, you were reading every word I wrote, and often enough, spending hours at it. I got the alerts. You had cycles. Sometimes explosive. Sometimes so explosive, radioactive heavy metals rained down upon the earth. Until you called me Truman Capote. Thank you.

Remember that time you were into humiliating me because of the sound in my voice. At least as interpreted by you. From bad video. 

Then, you went for my hair. Lars, you were never Joan Rivers. Your death threats scared me. I was afraid, okay. Why can’t people who have gone through this experience with stalkers articulate that they were never afraid. Yes, you were. I was. I was afraid.

I play poker. A lot. I wanted a cabin in the woods. To get away from Lars Eighner. I wanted a mountain with a view of about a hundred blue miles. I wanted Lars out of my life. Forever. I no longer wanted a house in the town. I do not want anyone to know where my cabin is. Had you lived, Lars, you could have made a lot of quick cash just riding my ass. But I am going out on a limb here, and I think this person trying to send my life into the toilet was deeply, deeply depressed. I cannot make an assessment as to how you died. All I have is a royal flush.