It’s three past three, and I’m still wide awake, tossing and turning in agony. What happened in the day has utterly devastated me, and its resultant trauma keeps me awake despite inebriation. I feel affronted, by her impertinence, her effrontery, her audacity and above all, my own ineptitude, for had I been able to placate her before the bomb of her rage detonated and things spiralled out of control, there would not have been any need for us to hurl invective at each other. And I hate the revolting side of me too, for if I were a more adorable person, she would probably not have acted with such antagonism towards me in the first place. I’m always to blame, now it dawns on me, when someone attacks me so ferociously— I deserve it. When I think about this, I find myself pathetic, for being the odious jerk I am. She only has a rudimentary grasp of English, and I should have expected someone like her to be sensitive to criticism, as many amateurs who overestimate their own ability would be. Yet I wasn’t empathetic enough when I pointed out her mistakes. I didn’t put myself in her shoes. She seemed to be troubled and debilitated by some mental condition, so she thinks rather differently from most of us, and they, the mentally ill, are like fragile collectibles— both need to be handled with infinite care. If you didn’t handle someone like her carefully enough, you might risk hurting her, albeit inadvertently. She would perceive your criticism, however constructive, as a threat to her self-esteem. Yet I do not want to apologise. To apologise is to capitulate to her pressure. She would rejoice in the triumph achieved through abuse and take pride in being indomitable in the face of a ‘menacing presence’ like me. Misandrists like her always visualise themselves as warriors, and defeating us males in a verbal battle is one of their sources of satisfaction. My making a concession would be taken as a sign of my weakness, as if I were showing my white feather. I’m okay with being considered a coward, since I don’t care about my reputation whatsoever. But I do care about her. Undoubtedly, this would fuel her pride and arrogance, and she would indulge more, in her illusions of being a queen to whom all males reduce themselves into obsequious slaves and humble stepping-stones. Finally, she would become the shared enemy of all males and, getting no criticism from real experts, she would not make progress any more. An intellectual cul-de-sac. My dear reader, now you can see why I feel grieved. I pointed out her mistakes because I wanted to help her and guide her, as someone with indisputably more expertise in English Studies. I had no bad intention but she misunderstood my motive. Is there anything sadder than this? Alas, how I wish to make peace with her, even though I know this is impossible. When I go back and read her replies again, her harsh words always penetrate my skin and flesh like a billion needles and eviscerate me like sharp lancets. It feels like being vivisected in the middle of an acupuncture treatment. I must do something to bring an end to this otherwise interminable torment. However, I can’t simply apologise to her because that would not be good for her; I can’t pretend nothing has happened, either. What should I do? This is my predicament. I bet when I’m trying to find a way out, she would observe me as I make futile efforts, with contempt maybe. Please, my reader, give me a little help so that I can survive this.