I realize you're a big successful author, and really, I'm just a shopgirl with delusions of becoming a junior college instructor of some sort—which means you have no reason to heed my advice. But believe me, I've been sitting on these thoughts and feelings for the last several years. They come from my heart and I think they might help you. Here goes...
You HAVE to stop talking. I'm not just saying this because your voice grates on my tender ears—which really aren't so tender considering the fact that I grew up in a boisterous and foul-mouthed family. And it's not because you look like one of the dinosaurs from that old ABC show of the same name. (Remember the next door neighbor...the brontosaurus?)
No. I'm advising you to stop talking because you're awful. You are the exact opposite of the following: gracious, impartial, sympathetic, human.
Trust me. I know where you're coming from. The anorexia must make you super cranky and I'd probably be pissed, too, if my eyes kept sinking to the back of my head a couple millimeters every year. Seriously, you look like Skeletor. And please don't let your body dysmorphia trick you into taking that as a compliment.
So, we have a deal, then? No more talking? No more wasting the world's time by writing useless books? No more passive aggressive interviews with relatively harmless News Magazine hosts, just to prove who's the bigger man? (It's you, by the way. Congratulations).
Alright. I'm glad I got that off my chest. No doubt we'll see each other in the afterlife. Actually, you'll probably just see me from that great view on your pedestal, hobnobbing with my friends: the single moms, the members of the liberal media and the homosexuals.
Of course, you're always welcome to join us.