I only regret one post that I made recently, and only because I was misunderstood by people I thought would be the very ones to understand. I won't make that mistake again.
Everything else made sense to me at the time (unless the painkillers had kicked in). I always have to correct my spelling mistakes if I see them, though.
There aren't enough superlatives to express my delight at reading this. "Thank you and well done" doesn't come anywhere close, but it must suffice!
I hate you. I actually fucking hate you. I hate you almost as much as I fucking hate myself, and way more than you are capable of hating me. What the fucking hell on this nasty, vicious earth is wrong with you?!
All those fucking years of sacrificing and running myself into the ground, and for what? Making a difference? Making sure nobody else ended up this way? It doesn't make a fucking difference. All you care about is what you want and what you have, never mind anybody else. It's all about you looking that way and me not looking that way, and you being a better person because of what you physically look like and what I don't.
I actually sincerely hope that your face is disfigured beyond your own control. I actually truly hope that somebody takes a rusty saw and hacks through your heel tendons. I hope they make a gauntlet of rusty nails and claw their way into your spine to rip out all the nerve endings and leaving raw edges. And after that, I hope they claw their way into your chest and rip out whatever shitty lame excuse you have for a heart, and fill your brain cavity with your own shit and the spit you shower me with. I hope that somehow, as soon as possible, you are torn to shreds and kicked into the void that is yourself. I hope you see yourself as you see me, and ten thousand times worse, and still it will not be as I see myself. But if I could make you feel it just for an hour, enough to make you wish you were dead and try to do it, I would feel some kind of gladness. And I will fucking bring you back to re-live the fucking pain.
I have fought for too long to try to see things from your point of view, to make excuses for my existence because it fucking offends you, and if I could tear your eyes out and rip out your tongue and burn them under your fucking perfect nose, I would do it. All the things that I have seen and felt and known and experienced, I wish them upon your life a thousand-fold. I wish you ill. I really, actually, truly do. And if you ever have the gall left to come crawling to me for help, I will kick it out of you with the rest of the shit that flows from your mouth.
And more, I shall laugh. I will laugh. I will laugh in your fucking face and tell you how worthless, ugly, shitty and despised you are. And I will tell you that you deserve it, and we will both know the truth of it. You do.
You are evil. You are the face of ugliness and I hope that every single fucking day that you look in the mirror, you cannot resist the urge to claw it from your skull because of how fucking ugly you are. I hope that your kneecaps are crushed or shot and that you turn into the same fucking heaving, wobbling, roiling mass of blubber and shit that I am, and that no matter what you do, how much effort you put into trying to lose weight, you get fatter and fatter until children laugh at you in the street, and people like you spit on you, throw you on the ground and punch you, just because of how you look so fucking fat and ugly.
And I hope that in the darkness, he comes for you. I hope that he holds your mouth shut and does the same to you. I hope he rips the life and whatever vestige of soul you might have out of you and pins it to the ground with that rusty knife. I hope you fucking suffer. I really, truly do.
What is the point? Who fucking cares? If wishes came true, you would fucking care. You would care so fucking much that you would cry blood and sweat, and throw yourself into the fires. I may not look like you, or be as wonderful as you, but I can fucking wish so much harder than you, and the act of will can be much stronger than your fucking narcissism. Watch your mouth and your back, you bastard. He's coming for you, and I will be standing by laughing.
One of them would absolutely kill me.
I told different one the other day in case they found out by another source that I had no control over. They thought it was very funny, and asked if I had written "Fifty Shades of Ginger" yet. I amused them by telling them about my gingerbread man story.
I wouldn't tell any other family members until the first one is no longer with us, and then only to explain why they can't read any of the stories I edit. I don't want my family to read this part of my life, and only a few select friends have any links to the site. This is private for me.
I reckon I'll get at least three replies, and one of them might even take pity on me. 
In general I avoid situations when I need to confront someone about something and I get really bad anxiety sometimes when I am confronted. I don't always avoid things like that but I do more than I'd like to admit to. Its also why when I do say something back, it sounds kinda childish. I'm just not that kind of person to be 'all up in yo face'. That might be part of why I just feel so off about the whole thing. 
