Of an Open Letter

Dearest Whom Ever,

I've been listening to too many critiques and they all contradict each other.

I've been called a product of misery. Does that mean I desire company?
I've been called bipolar. Does that mean I should increase my Zalasta intake?
I've been called a body-switcher. Should I eviscerate my Mr Hyde?
I've been called a rampaging berserker on the warpath. Do I turn myself into a willing victim now?
I've been told I'm multifacted. Do you want me to limit myself?
You call me cold, yet say I carry too much passion that it exhaust those around me to keep up.
You call me ugly yet trot me out like a prize filly in a show.
You call me full of shit and still you listen to my tales of romance and fancies.

So tell me again how does this finger-pointing work --- do I stand still? or do you want me to dodge your salvo like in P. E. class?

Tell me again of this seemingly incredible monster that shapeshifts, this multitasking destroyer that chomps on unfortunate souls to feed it's painful existence, this being that carries manifold mind patterns that houses too dangerous an imagination? Does it crave virgin sacrifices?

Or does it play more like this:
You call me miserable because I can exist without others.
I am bipolar because I like to laugh my troubles out loud, and become silent when I'm thinking.
You call me a body-switcher because I can separate between my heart's dictates and my mind's demands.
I'm a berserker on the warpath because I've had enough of being a victim.
I'm multifaceted because every one I come into contact with is unique in their own special way.
I'm cold because I don't waste time with feeling as opposed to doing.
You call me ugly because I reflect what is inside your soul.
I'm full of shit because that is the only scent a swill-guzzling spawn-of-a-sow would be familiar with.


Yours sincerely,
N. E. Guy