Hey Martha Stewart, you gloated about the death of a Post columnist — but I’m alive, bitch!

I’m alive, bitch!

Even if the Domestic Dominatrix thinks she’s finished me off.

It’s been 20 years since Martha Stewart traded her Manolo stilettos for ballet flats, her 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets for a lumpy, polyester blend-covered bunk bed — the bottom half, she moaned — and suffered through a diet of horrific coffee and fat- and carb-heavy grub as she became the most fabulous and furious inmate ever to grace Club Fed.

Two decades later, she’s still fantasizing about (plotting?) my grisly demise.

I made an uncredited cameo appearance in the new Netflix documentary, simply titled with her first name, “Martha.” Like Cher. Or Osama.

It’s about the life and crimes, hissy fits, grudges, vendettas and remorseless misbehavior of the New Jersey-born model-turned-stockbroker, then internationally celebrated purveyor of homemaker porn.