To the guy who thinks he's so interesting

Hey.

You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I think I know you pretty well. In fact, because you’re always talking about yourself, I think I know a lot about you. Unfortunately, because you’re such a meathead, you don’t realize how ridiculous you are.

The reason why you emulate others is because you don’t have a personality of your own. No, you’re not interesting because you associate yourself with someone famous. It’s just sad. You're not Holden Caulfield. No one is. Why the hell would you think that? I know the reason why. In fact, it's my next point.

You’re just dumb and want to give the impression you’re a lot smarter than you are. You’re not. You could surround yourself around an intellectual, or two, but your friends are pretty dumb, too. I can only imagine what sorts of conversations you have. Two seconds and you’re done. At least you’re not wasting precious air that I need to breathe (through my nose, not my mouth, like you). And even if you're all a pack of vacuous airheads, you still don't do anything interesting. Oh yes, dancing and drugs is so much fun - I can imagine I'm back in the 1980's all over again!

And, I know you’re good looking. In fact, you talk about it all the time. That’s very humble. What a gracious person you are, bestowing your perceived beauty onto us ugly plebeians. By the way, did you know if you were living in a larger city, no one would give you a second glance, because there are 10 pretty boys for every one of you? Just thought you’d want to know that.

You do have a great body. Then again, I would too if I worked out eight days a week. You have a six-pack? Congrats! I have one, too, and I don’t work out at all. My body isn’t that bad, either. Every once in a while I even get a compliment when I’m fully clothed.

Which brings me to clothing. Stop talking about your clothes. They’re nothing special. They’re rather bland and you wear them all the time. Do you have only two pairs of pants and five shirts? I don’t care if they’re designer. A lot of my clothes have labels in them, too, but I don’t talk about what I’m wearing as if I’m being interviewed by Mary Hart at the Oscars.

And, while I’m at it, I have to talk about your bag. It’s ugly. Fucking ugly. Period. You’re a fucking idiot for a) picking that fucking ugly bag, b) spending that much fucking money on that fucking ugly bag, and c) admitting that you spent that much fucking money on that fucking ugly bag.

So, do me and the rest of the world a favour: shut up and huddle yourself away where you don’t have to be seen by the rest of us. It’s just too painful.

Oh, yeah, and you have a small dick.

Best,
Steven.