that fucker thinks he's got something others don't. he thinks he's unique. talented. valued beyond his discount price-tag. but he isn't. he's ordinary. he's a blood-sucking, American slave. a half-assed shmo. I could've written a better poem for a perfume ad.
I'm the first to admit I'm amateur at best. Do better than me (it can't be too hard, you've read the same books I have) and I'll get right down on my fucking knees. But criticize me from the bottom step and I'll roll the shit down after you.
See, there's a small but capital difference between you and me. For me, this isn't a choice. I didn't just wake up one day and say, "Hey, I'm going to be a sad-bastard writer. I'll whine and cry and get all the sympathy I can. It'll be great." I write because there's no other way for me to come to peace with anything. It is integral with me.
You write because you find it amusing to play hop-scotch with your elaborate vocabulary, pontificating on your contemporary world-view with your graduate-level critical skills to give yourself a hard-on. Granted, I could be wrong. Maybe you need to write to feel better, too. Perhaps that's why you sent me this vile, anonymous hate mail - to belittle me to adorn yourself. Or perhaps I'm just being cruel because I am bitten.
You know, there's a chance that you and I are more alike than either would care to admit. But at this point, in my book, you're no better than a fucking gym teacher. You're a critic. And the worst kind, too, because you can't even take credit for your colorful attacks.
I only hope it means you're ashamed.