Angry and Nauseas

I am busy right now, but I am so enervated that I could probably cut my arm open and molten fire would spray out instead of blood.

It was this phrase, found on a Yahoo news post, that did it:

"Television personality and author Nicole Ritchie"

Author? Really? What did she write? Oh, this book? This "novel" about the daughter of an entertainer who gets on a reality show and becomes famous? You mean the one with the picture of herself wearing a tiara on the front cover? It looks a lot more like a thinly veiled, heavily-promoted vanity project, if you ask me. You know whose fault this is? It's yours, America, for continuing to pay attention to these vapid, inflated celebrities, who if not for being fired out of some rich woman's vagina, wouldn't get to "write" books and get them published.

Nicole, honestly, what have you had to do thus far? Grow up being friends with crappy human beings like Paris Hilton, get everything you want (which, apparently included at some point being an author), go score heroin on Sunset, never go to jail for scoring heroin, be on TV, etc. etc. etc. Hmmm... I didn't see consistent disappointment from rejection form-letters on that list. Well, fuck you, Nicole. This book is the last straw. When I think of every writer who gets his or her stories, articles and manuscripts rejected over and over again, who works a nine-to-five in order to be a writer because writers don't usually make livings off their passion, who may get to experience a divorce or a drinking problem or some other misery because of his or her drive to do what he or she loves, well I hope, just a little bit, Nicole Ritchie, that your personal hell involves having to eat every copy of that novel, after the rest of us have wiped our asses with them.

--The Robo-Pirate