There are two types of people in the world: those who hate me, and those who won’t tell me why they hate me. Here’s a letter I received this week:

“Dear Oregon, I’d like to apologize to all Oregonians for Wm. Steven Humphrey. Maybe you’ve read his remarks about President Trump being a bigot. Trump has done more for minorities in this country then any Democrat in our lifetime. Liberal minds like Mr. Humphrey’s are diseased, and he ought to think a little harder before making remarks that make him sound like a jackass. Signed, Anonymous.”

Okay, first of all—did any of you get this letter too? Because they’re talking to “all Oregonians,” and it would be weird if I was the only one who received it. Secondly, while I think their claim that “Trump has done more for minorities than any Democrat” might be a liiiiiittle bit of a stretch, I appreciate this Trump supporter telling me why their feelings were hurt by the things I wrote, as well as their concern for my liberal, diseased mind. (I’m seeing a doctor next week.) That said, why is this person apologizing to Oregon on my behalf? It’s not like he’s responsible for my actions in any way, unless... waitasecond. DAD?!?

While I call my father, here’s another letter I got this week:

“Dear Steven, I saw your performance in the Geniuses of Comedy show at Revolution Hall and it was great!! Whoops... I meant it sucked, and you were cringeworthy. Oh, and you’re responsible for ruining the Mercury. It will never be what it once was. How dare you sell out? Queer.”

Just so you know, I’m pretty sure they’re calling me a queer—I don’t think it’s how they sign letters. But I’m not mad, because technically I am queer—or half-queer because I’m bisexual—so kudos... they got that part right.

Here’s my point: In the first letter, the Trump supporter was trying to hurt my feelings, because I hurt their feelings. They like Trump, and I don’t—so I can understand why they’d be upset. But in the second letter, the person was trying to hurt my feelings, but didn’t say how I hurt their feelings—unless it was caused by my cringeworthy performance at Revolution Hall (which, in that case, fair enough). However, in the most likely scenario, I probably wrote something disagreeable, causing them to fire off a bunch of random insults like a malfunctioning tennis ball machine.

Just so everyone knows, I am open to any and all types of criticism—I eat it like Peanut Butter M&Ms. But at least let me know how I hurt your feelings, okay? Otherwise, what’s to stop me from hurting them again? Even if I don’t always agree with you, I LIKE YOU. Therefore, feel free to educate my liberal, diseased mind in any manner you choose at, and until next time, I promise to keep my ruining of the Mercury down to a bare minimum.

Portland Mercury