Read The More You Ignore Me for Free Online

“moderator” chair, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk on his face after typing in some banality, you could lean over him—so close that your auburn hair gently touches his temples, and your sparkling green eyes meet his only a few inches away.
    He’d smell your shampoo, Garnier Fructis, and his little smirk would turn into something else entirely, a smile of genuine joy at your presence—he might even think of his mother, how she cared for him despite his obvious illegitimate monstrosity, and then you could stab him in the larynx repeatedly with a Rollerball Number 2 pen.
    No one would blame you!
    Blood would gush over his pathetic skinny tie, his Banana Republic shirt, and his seedy sport coat. He’d start grabbing at his throat, but unable to stop the spurting blood, wide-eyed, mouthing “help,” he’d turn abruptly and fall, bloody neck pulp first, onto his keyboard and expire.
    And there you would be, exhilarated, pen in hand, the heroine!
    Your peers would, I’m sure, applaud you!
    But of course this is a mere fantasy, a joke even!
    Not a threat!
    I am aware none of this site’s readers share an office with Chris.
    Surely he is just a hired hand, a “freelancer” who “telecommutes” to Charlico.com /blog.
    But some of you do have contact with him.
    I know that to be true from my observations here.
    You are not innocent in this crime, though I allow you are “not guilty” in the sense that up until now you perhaps were unaware of all that plagued you.
    But let’s not dwell on that fact.
    I obviously don’t need violence to defeat this grunting fetus.
    I have my nimble wit and the power of the truth at my fingertips!
    He cannot hide from the truth, which is that he has once again attempted to silence the wrong man!
    I will not go quietly nor gently!
    I will rage!
    I will not roll over and let his filthy fingers worm their way into my rectum in an obscene bid to give sick pleasure.
    It’s only he who enjoys such vices—not I!
    And surely not you, my sweet ones!
    You wouldn’t (and surely haven’t!) knowingly rolled over for him, though I know young women in our horrid cities feel the need to do awful things to validate themselves from time to time because of our diseased culture.
    A girl doesn’t seem to feel any sense of self-worth unless some man is making a film of her with a miniature baseball bat crammed halfway up her vaginal cavity.
    It’s awful.
    She might even give it a little flex so the knob of the bat wiggles in the putrid air of her bedroom and think such a thing is somehow appealing, or that it is a point of pride to be able to do such a thing with a vulgar pornographer.
    But my dears, any reasonable man will just feel contempt for you.
    Trust me.
    No man wants to follow a baseball bat.
    Even a miniature one!
    Though I daresay it might be preferable to following that sewer of a moderator.
    But what am I saying!?
    I would forgive you!
    A drunken night can lead a girl to think it necessary to allow the fingers of a man to enter her as she lies nearly passed out . . . you’re impressionable, I know, but I promise I won’t take advantage that way.
    Hear me out.
    I merely want justice served.
    The wedding plans proceed, and the procession grates against my sensibility, but action is still possible!
    I know Chris feels my presence.
    I nag at his conscience.
    How do I know?
    Because I analyze data.
    I know where to get information.
    I will soon have a site of my own, and then I will see when he checks up on me, on what I’ve been saying and doing.
    He will soon be watching my every move!
    He won’t miss a day!
    He won’t be able to help himself.
    Perhaps he’s even here now, having followed me to this very recipe site tonight.
    Hello!
    Smile for the birdie!
    I dare you to do something!
    The comments are open, are they not?
    Scum!
    What’s that?
    Nothing?
    No response?
    You cheap