You were in my dream last night.
I dreamt that I said something very minor to you and you decided to publish those pictures of me on the internet. The ones you took without my permission, without my knowledge. The ones you said you took because you missed me, because if you had asked, I would have said no.
In the dream you said you would tell all my family and friends where to find them. You said it with such bare-faced nonchalance that all I could do was pretend not to care and try to convince myself that it didn’t matter.
I had forgotten about the dream, about you, about the pictures, until just now during a meeting with colleagues I like spending time with. And now I feel sick.
I hope the memory of what you did haunts you the way it still haunts me. I hope it keeps you up at night. I hope you find yourself in a good situation surrounded by wonderful, witty, insightful people, and then find yourself floored by the ghost of something that happened five years ago. I hope you read the news about horrible systematic misogyny in entertainment and politics and business and feel a gut-wrenching fear that you are no different, that you are just a number, a statistic, that you have fallen into the tired history of men who take advantage of women, despite your best efforts not to.
I hope you never find peace.
I hope you go slowly and completely bald.
Go fuck yourself,