I just hit 500,000 YouTube subscribers, but I hate my fans with a passion.

My channel is one of the fastest growing on YouTube, but I?m thinking of throwing in the towel.
Just the thought of creating another video makes my stomach turn. I can feel my health and happiness tumbling into the abyss, and more days than not I can hardly get out of bed.
All because of my fans.
Those sadistic ****s never give me a moment's peace. I?m their god, and my videos are the altar they worship me upon. Boundaries don?t exist in their mind?I?m their property, plain and simple. They think that they own me. They think that they know me, despite only interacting with me in haphazard comment chains at the bottom of five minute videos.
How my address leaked I don?t know. All I know is that ever since it did my life has become one never ending **** storm of home invasions and back-alley stalkers.
Just last week I had to call the police because a young woman was following me around town. She even followed me into a Walmart restroom and attempted to wash my hands for me, which was one of the most bizarre (and frightening) incidents of my life.
On Tuesday I found a man lounging in my backyard. He was sprawled out on a blanket in the grass, and had a full-basket picnic wrapped in his arms. The moment he saw me peeking at him through the window he started screaming and waving his arms like I was his long lost childhood friend.
He was naked.
Both of those incidents pale in comparison though to what happened last night?an incident that has left me shaken to my core and debating whether or not to sell my house and leave creating YouTube videos to braver content creators than I.
That horrible night began when I awoke to the sound of nail clippers. I wheeled my head towards the source of the sound, and screamed when I saw a middle-aged woman hovering over my hand with a set of freshly cut nails in her palm.
?Hush sweetie,? she said, voice laced with adulation. ?I didn?t mean to wake you. I just noticed your nails are a little overgrown, so I thought I would give them a trim. We don?t want you looking shabby for your next video.?
I jumped out of bed and turned on the lamp by my nightstand. ?Who the hell are you?? I said, voice breathless.
I could tell by the indent on the pillow she was using that she had been laying by my side for hours.
She laughed. The sound of her gravely voice echoing around the shadow-filled room sent chills rippling down my flesh.
?Quit messing around,? she said. ?I know you remember me. You responded to my comment three days ago.?
?What are you doing in my house??
?I just wanted to pay you a visit. I?m your biggest fan. Celebrities deserve to know who their biggest fans are. It?s a shame that we haven?t met sooner.?
?You shouldn?t be in here. Leave now or I?m calling the police.?
The myriad of emotions that assaulted her face immediately after I said this truly stunned me. Her expression morphed from devastation, to confusion, to white-hot anger?all in two seconds.
?You *******,? she said, rising from the bed. ?I?ve should?ve known that you wouldn?t appreciate me. You famous types care only about yourselves.?
She hurled herself at me before I had a chance to respond. The force of her body crashing into mine sent me careening back towards the wall. My head struck the plaster, sending a torrent of stars cascading across my vision.
Luckily my strength held, and I had her on the ground in seconds. I placed my knees on her back, pulled my cell phone from my pocket, and called the police.
The police escorted her from my house ten minutes later, screaming and snarling like a wounded animal. I watched in dismay from my bedroom window as they restrained her flailing limbs by my mailbox and lowered her into the back of their car.
Needless to say, I wasn?t able to fall back asleep. My stress level is through the roof right now; I don?t know if I can keep living this way.
If you have any thoughts about what I should do, please tell me.
Unfortunately, I have to go now. The man with the picnic basket just hopped my fence, and this time he brought a friend.


Source.