To: Mr. Daniel B. Robertson (
RE: Your identity

Dear Mr. Robertson,

You may have noticed a rash of irregular activity across your personal and professional accounts. For instance, the purchase of several high-end jet skis on your AmEx and the $600 downpayment for a buy-out at the Chuck E. Cheese at Atlantic Center in Brooklyn. In addition to unauthorized credit card transactions, you may have received phone calls and digital correspondence inquiring about unfamiliar debts and/or commitments.

If you did notice, you made no effort to investigate further. So I write you today to inform you that after having spent considerable time assuming your identity, I have decided to return it to you. I erroneously believed that any individual foolish enough to secure all of his accounts with the password “Cooldan69” deserved to be hacked, but this was before I glimpsed into the grotesquery that is your life — and I’ll be honest, “cool” Dan, you are the only monster on this Earth who should be burdened by your wretched existence.

As an ethical person, I often research folks after lifting their identities, and when I first glanced at your e-persona, your quirks amused me. “Oh, he owns a typewriter, that’s quaint,” I tittered. But then there were the hats: top hats, bowlers, and multiple fedoras. Dan! Wake the fuck up, man! It’s the 21st century! Those pretentious accoutrements belong in a museum, not on your bedroom wall. The ironic mustache atop your shit-eating smirk made my stomach roil, and I can’t even with that monocle. Be honest with yourself, Dan: did you really need to purchase a vinyl edition of that Alabama Shakes album? We both know you don’t own a record player.

Provoked by your penchant for anachronism, I tweaked your job title on LinkedIn to “Cobbler’s Apprentice.” But you gave no indication that you noticed — perhaps you don’t spend much time on that network as a part-time bartender/artist. So I adjusted your age on OKCupid to reflect your sensibilities at a more interest-relevant 90 years, and even still, you scuttled on with your life, only sending a single email puzzling over the slowing trickle of romantic interest online.

Your problematic lifestyle obsessed me. I think the final straw was your tendency to google pictures of elaborate meals, which you post on your Instagram as your own. I’ve seen your Seamless order history, Dan: almost exclusively noodles with butter from the local Chinese place. Is nothing sacred?

But after the jet skis and the blowout pizza party, I didn’t feel the rush that normally follows such a wild and crazy spree on another person’s line of credit, and I realized that the reason was that using your money just feels dirty to me. Not because it “isn’t mine” or “I don’t deserve it” but rather, I’m genuinely repulsed by you and everything about you.

Thusly, I have returned your profiles to their native states and replenished your trusts. Please never contact me again. I hope you appreciate the strife and pain you have caused me.

Your Regretful Hacker