I was in my parked car, talking on the phone and crying. For some bizarre reason, this prompted you, driving by, to pull over, roll down your window, and snap a picture of me with your digital camera. What the fuck is wrong with you? How dare you exploit my sorrow for some trite art project, your perverse personal collection, or your blog? Whatever your motivation, it did not go unnoticed and only served to make my already fragile state worse.
I do not consent to you using that picture in any way, and if it pops up in an art show or on the internet, I will find you. I will wait until you are in the throes of an emotional breakdown, and then I will invade with a shameful act of douchebaggery so you can see how it feels to be on the other end of the camera. Count on it.