Sweetie, you're always apologizing. Now, going completely postal on somebody's ass? THAT'S a ... post I'd pay to see!Really, Mark? Really? Well, gee, Mark, do you think if I were to go postal on somebody's ass, you might actually READ my blog once in a while? Huh? I mean, you know, beyond scanning it for your own name?
Because we both know you don't read my blog, Mark, despite your feeble claim to the contrary: "Oh, yeah, I read it, sure, umm, well, there was that, uh, Catholic thing, yeah, and, uh...uh..."
Catholic thing, Mark? Catholic thing? I've never written about Catholics, Mark. I even Googled it. I tried "subversive librarian" with Catholic. Pope. Priest. Nun. Alter Boy. Pedophile. Nothing!
And as for comments: Exactly how many comments have you really posted on my blog, Mark? One? Two?
How about zero? That's right. ZERO.
So fine, Mark. I get it. You're smarter, more talented, better-looking, and taller than I am. You're a genius and I'm a hack. But tell me, Mark, would your head explode if you had to read just one of my pitiful little posts that doesn't pertain to you?
Yeah, I know, you're a big star now. You're too busy going to Vienna, and hosting cruises, and interviewing US senators, and touring sex clubs, and insulting other, better-known bloggers in a truly pathetic plea for attention....
Whatever, Mark. I wish you all the best as your fan base keeps growing exponentially, while I languish alone in bitter, poverty-stricken obscurity. Yeah. The kind of bitter, poverty-stricken obscurity where they turn off your heat because you can't pay the bill. And I'll get sick from the cold and start coughing up blood. After a couple years I won't even have the strength to cough up blood anymore, and then I'll die of consumption.
But it'll be all right, Mark. You know why? Because the last thing I see on this earth will be YOU on television, accepting your second Oscar for best screenplay. And I'll be thrilled for you, truly thrilled, and I'll try hard not to cry when you refuse to take my phone call because you don't remember who the fuck I am. And that's when I'll die. All alone. And they won't discover my body until winter, after the rats have chewed off my bitterly frozen, poverty-stricken toes.
So, I just hope you're satisfied with your handiwork, Mark, because you're killing me here. Fuck you. Fuck you very much.