Some Pointers on Talking Shit About Mitchell

I would never complain about strangers talking shit about me. When I made my life and opinions public information, I gave strangers permission to judge me. I understand trolls are an aspect of the internet game. Plus, like most writers, I’m a narcissist, and like most narcissists I thrive on both good and bad attention—that’s why I had no problem with Cherwell mocking me in their “40 Influential Undergraduates” list. But for the love of God, Cherwell, if you’re going to trash me, trash me in fucking style. 

1.) Fact check your reasons for hating me.

First of all, spell my name right. I’m not related to Donald Sutherland; I’m related to the founders of a really shitty northern town and an Australian who helped open one of the first clothing sweat shops in Thailand. Although there are many reasons to hate me, coming from Buttfuck, Nowhere isn’t one of them. Last time I checked, growing up in Miami and Fort Liquordale and attending school about ten miles from an island called Manhattan is the opposite of “the middle of nowhere.”

2.) Know the difference between personal essays and journalism. 

I write investigative journalism pieces—but never for the Tab or about Oxford. The Oxford gays article that you people can’t get over was a personal essay, and my Tab pieces have been either essays or opinion pieces. Before you hate something, understand what you hate—it’ll make you look less like a retard.

3.) Use your brain.

I believe in freedom of speech. Not pseudo-liberal freedom of speech that believes in censoring hate mongers. I mean real freedom of speech, the kind that allows you to call me a faggot. Say whatever the fuck you want, I don’t care. I would just prefer if you nail me to a cross the way Tatiana Cutts did in the most recent issue of The Oxford Student; homegirl is a great writer who deconstructed my entire argument about depression to make my article look like shit. Haters, follow her lead.

4.) Stay consistent.

About twice-a-week Joe Miles, Cherwell’s resident troll, tweets me to let me know I am an attention whore (like this isn’t something I don’t know). Yet when I walk past the troll, he smiles at me—and on a few occasions has even said hello. If you’re going to make trolling me a hobby, stay consistent and either ignore me or scowl at me in public.

5.) Don’t message me on Grindr.

Newsflash: Just because I’m a narcissist doesn’t mean I’m going to blow you a few weeks after you scream at me in Babylove—I don’t need attention that badly.