Dear Diary,

Today I attended the first day of the Paris Writing Workshop. It was everything I hoped it would be, and more. My apartment is obviously amazing because I have GREAT taste in real estate. In fact, I am currently sitting out on my balcony (from which I can see the Eiffel Tower) and reflecting on the orientation session today. The people in my workshop come from all different walks of life and have a wide range of experience. Some are professional writers, others are taking a break from their schooling and career track to find their creative writing voice again. It’s such a great mix. I’m so excited for everything that is to come.

The main feeling I am walking away with today is that of VALIDATION. At long last, my lifestyle and outlook on the world has been validated. I am a normal person. I am not the only person who took Hemingway seriously when he suggested sitting in bars and cafes all day, people watching, and writing. I am not the only person who drinks an extra glass of wine. I am not the only person who has dreamed of coming to Paris to walk these historic streets and dance with the ghosts of famous writers past.

I am not delusional. I am not crazy. I am not deranged.

I am just another writer existing in this world.

I.

Am.

Normal.

The truth is, I didn’t realize how much Vermillion was hurting me until today. There are things about South Dakota I love. I’ve lived there for ten years. I love Vermillion, even when I hate it. I’ve collected stories that other people have glossed over. I’ve met characters one would never expect. I’ve seen and done things even I can’t explain. I do love South Dakota. I love it, but oh, it hurts me so bad. It hurts me so, so, so bad.

I’m so tired of not being allowed to be myself. I’m so tired of every single thing I do or say obsessively picked apart and pathologized by ignorant losers who don’t read books and have nothing better to do. I’m sick of butthurt manbabies who say shit like “I just think Me Too has gone too far” trying to gaslight me and tear me down for calling them out on their misogynist bs. I’m sick of these disgusting, slanderous lies being passed around about me just because I had the NERVE to write a book about my real life experience. Heaven forbid a woman write about her own life. As we all know, men are all perfect and never do anything wrong. Women are all just liars and whores and making it up for attention. We are crazy. We are delusional. We are emotional and irrational. Everything we say and do is wrong. Heaven forbid some slut ruin the life of a perfectly nice young man. He has things going for him. She could ruin his life, even if he is just a drunk who threw away everything he had going for him creatively to do… what? Uhhh? Chop wood? I have no idea wtf Tom de la Salle is doing these days (getting wasted and doing nothing, I assume), but that’s who I am referring to right now.

I’m over this whole bullshit mentality that’s prevalent in our society. I’m so tired of repeating this bullshit, but here I am doing it AGAIN.

I’m not a fucking delusional stalker. I’m a fucking Writer Extraordinaire. I have a degree. I have a website. I hand out business cards. I was accepted into this Workshop. I am literally sitting on a fucking balcony in PARIS, FRANCE, listening to jazz and looking out over the Eiffel Tower right now. Oh, I wrote this guy a bunch of letters in email and text form because I thought I could “save” him from himself? Sounds like the work of a stupid young person who doesn’t understand addiction.

Even I don’t remember most of the shit I said. I guess I allegedly said I wanted to marry him, but believe me when I say that is NOT how I feel AT ALL. My guess is that I was drunk, probably blacked out, or assumed my “other personality,” which is actually a real phenomenon. Much like our dear friend Sam, I have told people things about myself while drunk that are not at all true. I once told some random person at a party that I was a fashion designer and three years later they asked me when my next line was coming out. Meanwhile, this guy goes around telling people he used to play basketball for Sioux City High School. Why is it funny when he does it, but it’s “crazy” when I do? I mean, he does this shit SOBER. I’ve seen it. He once convinced this random couple at Bloody Mary’s that Mad Dog was heir to the Getty Family Fortune. Really. You know what that’s called? Messing with people for one’s own selfish entertainment. But he can do it because he’s a man. I go on a bender and get blackout drunk for a week straight and tell people I’m gonna marry a [probably gay] guy, apologize later, recant that specific statement, and suddenly I’m a lunatic forever. All because I was “delusional” enough to believe I could save my friend from addiction by writing him letters.

Okay. Whatever.

Here’s the thing: People with the kind of serious mental health issues that I am regularly accused of having don’t do this. They are sick. They have serious problems that our society is not set up to fix. Those people end up homeless, go to jail, get hooked on drugs, attack people, and/or bounce in and out of hospitals. They buy random bus tickets to Vegas and sleep on the street while injecting heroin and smoking crack. I know those people. I’ve sat on the streets of Los Angeles and spoken to them one-on-one. Have any of these assholes who talk about me ever done that? Of course not. They’re sitting in their ivory tower making up disgusting shit because they’re bored.

I am not that person. I have NEVER been that person. And I am so, so, so, so, so goddamn tired of these jerks telling everyone that’s who I am and making up these delusional fucking lies about me. It’s gotten so bad, nobody will associate with me. And it pisses me off because NONE OF THAT SHIT IS TRUE. All of this, in the community where I have spent the last TEN YEARS OF MY LIFE. It’s the community where my family lives. It’s the community where I went to school and now treat as home. Yes, Vermillion is my HOME. And quite frankly, I’m sick and tired of being treated like I’m somebody I’m not just because I took the advice of an award-winning, world-famous writer of historical significance seriously when he said the best way to be a writer was to sit in bars and cafes and watch people all day.

I don’t know how to fix this. I obviously can’t convince these nutjobs they’re wrong about me. I mean, I’m in Paris. I’m literally sitting here writing on my balcony in PARIS MOTHER FUCKING FRANCE. I’m a real writer, ya’ll. What more do you want?

That’s why I totally blew off this whole “You can’t go to Bloody Mary’s anymore” bullshit. Like, no. Fuck you. I’m not going to respect the wishes of some fucking asshole who I watched lie to the cops on video. I’m not going to respect the wishes of some bipolar tattooed asshole who regularly picks fights with people and then calls the cops so he can lie about what happened. I’m not going to respect some closeted little rat who snitches on everyone and tries to play the victim when he gets called out it. I’m not respecting any of these assholes. They can all suck my goddamn dick.

You know what I’m gonna do instead? I’m gonna set up my chair right out back and have a beer. I would’ve been more than happy to give you my money, but you decided it wasn’t good enough for you. You decided to make up a bunch of crazyass shit instead. Like, really? You really think I was going horseback riding for three years before you moved into your house just so I could stalk you? Yeah, okay, that makes sense. I somehow magically got in a time machine, went forward in time specifically to figure out where you were going to live, and took up a new hobby alongside my sister (who was doing it three years prior to me) just so I could drive by your house and stalk you. Yeah, that makes total sense. Total. Fucking. Sense.

Oh wait, no it doesn’t. That’s why we think Sam is a delusional psychopath.

Yet again, I steal inspiration from a guy I’ve talked to three times so I can turn him into a factional character, and I’m crazy. This guy goes around telling people I’m stalker just because I waved at him one time to be polite, and it’s fine because he’s a man. Men get to do whatever they want, don’t you know? Yeah, it’s annoying as fuck. You know what I’ve learned from this whole Andrew thing? Don’t make eye contact with strangers in bars. You have no idea what you’re inviting in. City people are right. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t say hello. Don’t wave to randos on the street. Don’t talk to the bartender. And especially, don’t ever flirt with The Whoremonger when you’re blackout drunk. He’s dangerous. You might end up unwillingly writing a fictional novel about him that haunts your dreams forever.

Ugh.

I still can’t believe people actually believe I think a fictional novel is real. Like, no. That’s not what fiction is, guys. Go to the library and read a fucking book. It’s not that hard. Really. I urge you to try it sometime. You might actually (gasp!) learn something!

Yes, here I am in Paris, writing about South Dakota, because I am mad AF. I am so god damn ready to be treated with dignity and respect. I am so ready to be taken seriously as a writer. I am ready to edit and publish this e-book about Bloody Mary’s Bar and all of my ex-boyfriends. I’m ready to be done with this shit and write about brand new shit. Why? Because I’m the Writer Extraordinaire and writing is what I do.

On that note, I have to go get ready for the soiree this evening. There’s a crow perched on a chimney nearby cawing at me. It’s telling me I’ve used up my writing/ranting time and it’s time to get back to the real world, which is Paris for the next month. Time to get back to those streets and write!!!!

Thanks for listening to me rant again, Diary. You’re the only one who understands me. That’s why I keep you in my life. If only men were as considerate as you. Alas, we live in a world where men are allowed to do whatever the want and get away with it, while women’s lives and reputations are destroyed. Ain’t it grand? LOL. If only things were different. Sigh. Maybe someday…

Sincerely,

Betsey Horton, Writer Extraordinaire

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