Julius rights his other half.
There are some aspects of your persona with which I am frustrated. As your better half, I feel obligated to critique your often hackneyed character. Naturally, I begin with your writing.
You’ve openly said that your language is not your own; but, to the best of my knowledge, you’re the only sorry sap that understands the rubbish. You’ve been rightly accused of misquoting the classics- a mistake that many of your peers deem impermissible. I’ve looked over your shoulder as you abuse the same voice over and over again- sandwiching a serious assertion amidst nonsensical claims is a terrible tactic. As your unwillingly attentive reader, I have deduced that you are a hopelessly depressed romantic. Ben, your sweet sounding words are like candy: palette-pleasing but not nourishing. You have been disillusioned by multiple deranged love affairs- which I feel are more-so contained in your perception of the past than any actual reality. I fear this is the impetus for your love of Fitzgerald, Roth and, more recently, feminist poetry at large. Beyond these truths, your stories all end anticlimactically. You’re no writer at all.
You idealize friendship and loyalty but are yourself flighty and adverse to commitment. Your contemporary version of ‘the white-man’s burden’ might appear as follows: “I must perpetually apologize for my ancestors attempts to civilize.” You would pronounce the word ‘civilize’ with a pretentious air of understood irony. This predisposed understanding leads you to be self-loathing, which I find absolutely improper if not altogether pathetic. You consider yourself a debtor to mankind. This must be a joke.
Perhaps your understanding of art best defines your bullshit:
You say you ‘do’ art for art’s sake.
You pray you write for reason.
Ben, very bluntly, I see no reason in you at all.
the one and only-