If I were to die tomorrow I'm reasonably sure I'd be mourned, and remembered for being a reasonable facsimile of the best human being I can be.
But there's no profit in that for the type of individual whose life depends, having no other publicly visible skills, on being a professional shit-stirrer. Paid obscene amounts of money for deliberately constructing antagonistic opinions of someone else's misery, hurt, sorrow; opinions designed to inflame, incite and, most insidiously of all, to desensitise the reader to the kind of stimuli that would ordinarily bring to the fore empathy, understanding, and tolerance.
Employed and encouraged by a deeply broken media intent on retaining their services because readers equally bereft of common decency lap up this kind of commentary, and snapped up by the highest bidder because another company run by amoral businessmen would think it appropriate to make money using identical tactics…
Not exactly a golden age this, is it.
So, to all who feed the Hopkins woman and those like it, and to the nasty creature itself, this:
One day you too will die. You'll be lucky if your family retains any respect for you by then for simply putting the bread on the table by any means necessary. Attempting to make it acceptable to publicly express hate in the world my children will grow up into by the constant drip-drip-drip of bitterness isn't how I'd like to be remembered.
Rationalise it how you will, but headstone or not, your obituary won't be kind to you.