Jun 182018

Dear Rapist~


Hello again, old buddy, old pal! I was just thinking it might be great to catch up on old times since it’s been so long! How’s the sex life going? Have you graduated to full on necrophilia yet? Or are you still jumping  on top of sleeping virgins and going to town, praying they don’t wake up for the next few clumsy, pitiful, amateurish seconds?


That’s sick, dude. So pathetic and broken and laughably, laughably weak. What kind of loser . . . 


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The book I was working on was about a raging sociopath who no matter what I did, would not leave me alone~ you’re not that interesting a character, Adam, the book was about ME;  you’re funny maybe, but in a sad, pathetic way. A rape would have been no part of this book, it was about this greasy, dorky kid who did not know he had no soul, who followed me around pretending to be a millionaire when he had no money. None. Skint. It was hilarious, I really wish you could have seen it through my eyes.


But paying her off to not to report a rape? A rape she was asleep during?


I would certainly like to know where *I* was while you were “paying me off”! Where was the money? And why was this “extortion” costing ME so much?  I had more money than you, you were always taking it! Trying to get me to sell my prescription medication so YOU could buy more “shakedown anal mommy bukakke porn” (whatever that is) and video games, when selling illegal controlled substances is a felony?! Write that one down, hooligan. FELONY. It gets worse: thousands and thousands of dollars I lent YOU so you would stop crying about how Daddy would kill you when he found out how broke you were! The money I lent you when you effed up your car? How I paid them cash at Nissan to fix it? To stop your sorry WEEPING?!?

(not crying. WEEPING.)


And why?


So. Daddy. Wouldn’t. Kill. You.


Oh, boy. Lucky for you, now Daddy wants to kill ME.


(the girl you drugged and raped and tortured needlessly for two years. Thanks for that one. Isn’t it customary to LEAVE the scene of the crime?!?!?)


I have never hurt you, nor have I hurt anybody in your family and most likely, I probably won’t. I won’t have to, not after you’ve spent the past decade screaming your own guilt, laying it out like a bad scavenger hunt.


Innocent. People. Don’t. Get. Lawyers.


GROWN ASS 36 YEAR OLD MEN do not go see lawyers with their seventy odd year old parents in tow, Bonnie hunched over her cane, cackling about the “Brianne Situation” and Peter Osterman, red faced and bellowing loudly from that gut of his:




Well! Good to know he’s not getting drunk and beating your ass anymore! That’s a step in the right direction!


Then me? What about ME? I’M not the bad guy, not by a good, long shot. Not even close.


Adam. Enlighten me. How are YOU the injured party here? You raped a virgin.


When I said I did not want to have sex, it wasn’t because I wanted to send you to jail.


It was because I did not want to have sex. I did not want to be raped.


Forgive me, Adam Osterman. If you don’t want to go to jail, then don’t RAPE. Don’t rape women, don’t rape children, don’t rape animals. 


It’s fairly simple. You’re not a caveman, you’re not a gorilla. You’re not a freaking duck.




This is not difficult. How hard can this be?




Despite what you and your family think, I matter. I always mattered. I painted you pictures, I had you at holidays with my family, I was always good and kind to you. I’m a real person with a good heart, plus I’m intelligent, educated and I write a blog that you all just can’t get enough of. Even better, I’m white AND a Republican~ all this should be amazing catnip for your White Supremacist Jew family, but no.


Stone the bitch! Stone the bitch hard!


I already went to police, kiddo, I went six times and counting. I went the second I had those tapes, days before you went to your parents~ I’m still working with them, finding loopholes. You can promise me a hundred grand til you’re blue in the face, but you forget all the lies and bogus IOUs, when I went through TWO years of it~ I’ve still never been to Paris, I’ve never been on a cruise. I never even had that “day of beauty” at the Ponte Vedra Spa  . . . you think I ever believed I was getting a hundred grand? In CASH?


Au contraire, little man.


This whole thing makes me sick, I’m definitely not enjoying this, but I am suddenly amazingly empowered, I don’t think anything can stop me now~  I don’t like dealing with the police (“Statutes, schmatutes, you were drugged”), I don’t like giving interviews, I don’t want to have to leave the state right now. I don’t like writing, nor thinking about any of this. I don’t like seeing your grotesque pictures every time I log into my blog, but I’m no more afraid of you than I ever was.

I was never afraid of you. Not for a second,

On a different note, I wish I had not told off your girlfriend because I am past the point where I can have a normal reaction to this~ I have no tears, I never had them. I can’t even let my mind *go* there, it’s too heinous. Being raped is one thing, you took my modesty, you took my dignity, blah, blah, blah . . . I don’t have to let you keep it. At the end of the day, you’re scared of ME. You’ve done the worst you can do to me, what the heck else could you do to me now?

Kill me? Sure. I dare you. You’re terrified of doing a measly eighteen months in prison for a rape, you’re not going to to kill ME and get life. I know that. 


I’m not scared of you. I was never scared of you, I had the upper hand the whole time. I still have the upper hand


Had I been AWAKE, you would never have dared. You may well just admit that now.




I heard from your “girlfriend” you came home last February in a state of sheer, unbridled panic. Why? You saw BRI  . . . gasp . . . at Bartram Park PUBLIX! Cringe! SHOPPING!


“It wasn’t her!” she soothed you. “She lives in St. Augustine, it wasn’t her!”


“It was HER!” you cried, shaking half from fear and half from anger. “She was wearing a f**king leopard fur coat! A f**king leopard fur coat!”


There is no one in this entire world that could make me have a reaction like that, not a soul. Just so you know, my house was destroyed during Hurricane Matthew in 2016, so in February, 2017, I would have been staying with my mother. In Bartram Park.


Not only was it probably me, it was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent me. For sure, no shadow of a doubt. No question at all, that was me and it was February~ of course I was wearing a coat. Probably a red beret too, right? RIGHT!


Good thing you hightailed it though because if I had recognized you at all (which in itself is unlikely) I’d have probably done the heinous, despicable thing that you would have been dreading most:


I’d have walked over. Smiling.


And I’d have said hello. Smiling. Asked you how your divorce was going, maybe lightheartedly told you to lay off the Big Macs.


(still believing the worst you had ever done to me was suck the life out of me for two years and steal my guitar)

Reader Comments

  1. Bri – please text or PM me if you need anything. I’m so sorry this happened to you.

  2. Oh, god. Thanks, but the very last thing I am going to do is act like that. We’re talking about twelve seconds, lol!

    I am not getting upset, I’m getting even. And I am probably going to continue getting even every chance I get for, um . . . ever?

    Yeah, I need something. Do you know anyone in the mob? The mafia? The family?
    Just when I thought I was out . . . they pull me back in. 🙂

    Looks like I’m going to Washington.

    Take twelve seconds from me, I will ruin every inch of you.

  3. It’s the personal letters that are really going places, this is how things change. There’s laws.

    On a different note, why do you think he is so scared of prison? No internet? No video games? No porn?

    Rape’s not a big deal inside.

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