And as I have repeatedly asked you to clean up your act, and you have not only refused to do so but made elaborate bullshit justifications for your obnoxious behavior, I have to assume you have no more respect for me than you do for anyone else, possibly including yourself.
Well, you're certainly right about my having no respect for myself. Knowing myself better than anybody else possibly could, I've got no illusions. I just get on with the work as best I'm able, chiefly because people come to me with problems and want me to help them get solutions. I'm apparently better than any alternatives they've been able to find, and ain't that a helluva note?
I've also got no control over how others receive my presentation, whether I do my stifling, sweating best to keep it emollient (as best I can appreciate their sensitivities) or simply speak my mind, "elaborate bullshit justifications"
and all. The world is full of people who (to paraphrase Leo Frankowski) are just plastic garbage bags full of broken glass; whatever they bump against rips 'em a new one.
Whether you judge my opinion of your work respectful or not is as much beyond my control as anything else in even my immediate surroundings. For whatever its worth, I think it ingenious and inventive and valuable, and it grieves me bitterly to know that the majority of mankind is as blind to its worth as they are to the pig-simple notion of fiat currency inflation.
Getting back to Murray Rothbard and "Hatred is my muse."
You, personally, I do not know, any more than you know me and my personal condition. I suppose we're all of us laboring under Heinlein's admonition ("When the fox gnaws - smile!"), and so I bare my teeth in a rictus and count myself virtuous whenever I've managed to get though a day without sinking my fangs in some flaming idiot's throat.
It ain't easy, and I'm far from a virtuous man.