Kat Atwell is a freelance writer, blogger & stage presence telling stories that deliver laughs, validation & community.

Mental Health | Wellness & Self Image | Experiential & Reviews



Prior to this evening’s gruesome bout of words, smashed about in the mouths of furious orators as baby seals being ripped apart by the fifty teeth of a Great White shark (I Googled it), I did as I presume all the competitors did - I stalked my opponent online.

I have some very disappointing news resulting from my sleuthing. Ladies and gentlemen, Nate Ragolia is an exceptionally kind and loving human being. He’s nice. Like, really nice.


And, seeing as I, too, am extremely sweet and charming...no joke, I’m, like, ridiculously friendly, I reached the conclusion that I had to go about this competition --- differently.

Rage. In order to reign triumphant, I intend to charge into my piece with ferocity. And, what better way to do so, than by writing a scathing missive to an ex-lover?

Please note: As mentioned earlier, I’m a delightful individual. As such, I never really found myself in a romantic relationship with an asshole. BUT, NO MATTER.

For the sake of this competition, he will be conjured...IN MY MIND.

To begin, I must find just the right name to whom I will address this correspondence of hate and disgust. Do we have any Jasons in the audience? Mikes? Christophers? Lyles? Any Lyles?


Without further ado! (clear throat melodramatically)

Dear Lyle,

How DARE you. I loved you, Lyle, I really did. But, upon learning about your true character, our relationship is obviously going to end right now. I only wish I’d never met you in the first place. Via the Tinder, or the Bumble. I should never have swiped right. Left? Right. (I’ve been married for fourteen years - dating apps are vague and confusing - run with it).

You are the unsqueezed whitehead on the chin of an oily teenager - a rude, ill-behaved teenager - not one who can blame her behavior on poor upbringing or neglect or otherwise. The teenager to whom I’m referring is just plain bitchy. You are the mucus spat from the mouth of a wart-covered troll suffering from severe halitosis.

Although, when you think about it, it’s really hard to imagine a wart-covered troll having fresh and minty breath…


You are the diseased testicle of an orangutan covered in the feces of an even larger orangutan. And I mean the entire orangutan is covered in the feces, not just its diseased testicle. Just for clarification. It’s possible that when I was editing this letter of hate, I came across this sentence and found it vague enough to justify further explanation.

Not only did I learn that you tip less than ten percent on the regular, you also, routinely, do not return your cart to the corral at the grocery store. YOU MONSTER.

You’re a man who does not hold the elevator for others. You’re the shitty driver people refer to when they say, “I’m not worried about how I drive in the snow, it’s the others on the road I’m worried about.” You are legitimately that guy!

When you cough, you do not do so into the crook of your arm. You allow your sputum to fly free into the air, potentially infecting adorable little old ladies, tiny children, and rescue puppies.

Should I write “puppy murderer” here? I feel like I should write “puppy murderer.”

Your house is decorated with artwork only purchased at big box stores, you don’t support the local music scene, and I’ve been told on good authority that when making love, you have never - NEVER! - attended to the needs of your partner, or partners. Fortunately, I would not know, as our relationship never made it that far. There’s more to lovemaking than achieving your own orgasm, you fucking pig-man.

Even though you don’t deserve it, allow me to pass along some unsolicited advice. Your biggest sex organ is your brain, numbnuts. Learn to talk dirty, and learn to talk dirty well. Use those filthy words to find out the lesser-known kinks of your lovers. Maybe she wants you to suck on her toes. Maybe she gets hot when you let her tie you up. Maybe she wants a plug in her ass and to be blindfolded and made to call you sir and have her tits slapped around while Darling Nikki plays nearby on your Amazon Echo.


Don’t interrupt me to defend yourself. I am not done. Is it warm in here?

As I was saying.

You routinely post spoilers online. If you think I missed the thing you wrote about what happens to Luke in Star Wars: The Last Jedi, you would be mistaken. You should be ashamed of yourself.

My fish, Hank? Remember him? My beloved pet companion I asked you to feed while I was on my business trip in Milwaukee? You said you didn’t know what happened to him. You indicated you just found the fish bowl empty on Tuesday. You told me a spectre must have stolen my fish away in the night. You suggested I exorcise my apartment.

I found Hank floating in my toilet, and I don’t think a ghost put him there. Jesus. At least you could have had the decency to flush.


You know, in the midst of all this, I failed to remember there was supposed to be a theme incorporated into this scathing letter. Thinking about you and listing all of your gross shortcomings made me forget.


And you know what that’s called, Lyle? That’s called irony.

Fuck you, asshole.


Just to remind everyone, I’m really quite a lovely person. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. Please get home safely tonight, and best of luck to my competitor, Nate.

A Rebirth.

Hear me.