I don’t mind people staring at me in my glass prison in the middle of 6th Avenue. I don’t even mind the jeering or obscene gestures. What sickens me are the people writing down my personal information written on the outside.
I’ll need a new phone number, of course, will need to move too. My credit’s ruined. After my 9-hour sentence in the dox box—one for each guilty charge—my life is devastated.
Do I feel guilty? Yeah.
Have I learned my lesson? Too well. I take out a paperback of Robinson Crusoe and fantasize about a new start.
In case you don’t know, here’s what doxing is.