After all, if you could spend the better part of the last year checking in on me, it hardly seems fair that I can't return the courtesy. I mean, what are you going to do if you ever sell a novel or screenplay? Make sure it's not sold anywhere you think I might buy it?

Yes, I'm talking to you. Happy? You're acknowledged, although I gotta tell you, it's not because you've "angered me"; it's because you've brought out in me the obnoxious high-schooler who wants to pick on the weird kid. Seriously, moving your whole blog for the second time in a year because I'm reading it!? And what's up with the Ewan McGregor? Death sticks? Don't be so dramatic. You look like a dork.

So what do you want from me, anyway? You don't want to be friends and you think I'm a hack, and you're in one of the greatest cities in the world. There HAS to be something better for you to do than either concern yourself about what I might have to say about stuff that happened 13 -- 13! -- years ago or derive pleasure from any of my drama. No, really. Dig deep. Or does it really mean that much to you to hear how I remember things? Well, here, then: There's no question that 13 years ago, I was a total basketcase who most likely needed medication, and I did some pretty retarded things -- none of which involved sticking a gun to your head and making you do a damn one of them. So do yourself a favor and stop making me the scapegoat of everything that went wrong in your life