She missed every single deadline and refused to respond to my e-mails. Because of her, I had to postpone my publicity campaign. I filed a complaint with my credit-card company, and after an extensive investigation they concluded that she defrauded me. My $6000 has been refunded.

Legally, I could tell you her name, if I wanted. Maybe I will at some point. She admitted to the person who recommended her that she was "less than forthcoming" to me. See, she claimed that she was too sick to work, having been struck down in the prime of life by a vitamin B deficiency. This led to depression, for which she was prescribed Zoloft, and her reaction to the medication made it impossible for her to work on my Web site or respond to my e-mails.

And yet!

During this period of illness and profound personal tragedy, she was going out to expensive restaurants almost daily, photographing the meals, and posting about them on a very large image-sharing Web site. Lots of seafood dishes, especially crispy skinned salmon for her vitamin deficiency. She also gave dinner parties with cheesecake for dessert, and she attended family functions that she photographed and provided with long, humorous[sic] captions.

Though she admitted that she lied, she fought tooth and nail to keep my money. You know why? I'll tell you, because I've figured out these people.

Everyone on the planet exists for her to exploit. She's the only one who matters. God help her toddler son when he's no longer useful to her as a prop. Even being exposed as a fraud, a liar, and a criminal is fodder for her self-aggrandizement, because she can weep at the tragedy of it, that she "made such a mistake." But she still thinks it's wrong to make her refund my money.

This kind of person is unsalvageable. They're sick beyond redemption. All you can do is smash them until they stop preying on you and go away. And it's all volitional. They choose to be this way, so don't pity them.

My own mental-health issues have never once prevented me from meeting a deadline, so I have no sympathy whatsoever for the "Depression made me do it!" excuse. I wrote and published five books while dealing with depression, suicidal ideation, chronic nightmares, insomnia, an incurable disease, anxiety attacks, uncontrollable anger, and the loss of everything I loved. While Miss Vitamin B Deficiency was screwing me, I was enduring the horrific, protracted death of my father and its demented aftermath, which continues to this day.

So, as a fellow mental patient, I get to say, "Fuck your depression, sweetheart."

And if the mood strikes me, I just might write a nice, long piece about you, including the pictures you took of your yummy meals. I have dated screen grabs of them all. Maybe I'll put up a post showing where you went and what you ate the day you sent me the groveling e-mail all larded up with excuses and begging for a second chance.

(This is me not-angry. Can you imagine how I was when bottomless rage ruled my life?)