This was originally posted as a story, but since people did not agree with it, it was suspended.
This is an example of an oligarchic government, kiddies.
I did not write this just to be a bitch, honestly.
It's obviously targeted at a group of people, but a similar "story" targeted at a group of people didn't get shit because the people with "power" agreed with the writer.
I accept that that's the way it is, I'd just appreciate being able to get my own opinion out there.
I wrote this to vent, actually, not about mibba.
It was just a subject matter that I could write about and get my frustration about other topics out, too.
---
Hi. My name’s Andrea. I’m a writer.
You’re a writer too? That’s great, kiss my ass. I am a better writer than you. I write with meaning, with depth. Compared to me, you’re just swimming in the baby pool. The things I write, really, are way beyond you. It’s cute how you think you understand. Some day, you’ll come to terms with the fact that you will never be as deep and talented as I. In the meantime, you’ll keep reading everything I write and worshipping my every word. I am everything you want to be.
Since I am so much better than you, you don’t mean shit to me. It’s understandable that you’ll fawn over me, and want to talk to me; and you can send me as many love-messages as you want- I will never respond. I don’t care what you think we have in common, I will not be your friend. Why would I stoop to that level? I don’t want to associate myself with you and your horribly written, spelling-error infested, Skittles-centered Frerard. This means I will not read your story and I will certainly not review it. Of course you would benefit from my help, but natural-born writers like me don’t have time to coach you. You’re hopeless, anyways. You’ll never make it big, like I will. At least you’ll be able to tell people that you knew me.
Of course, despite all this, I am a caring and sensitive person. I have people in my life who I care deeply about, and their problems cause me great distress. There is a side of me that you don’t know; a side that cries herself to sleep every night, the side with a list of ways to kill herself, the side that believes I have no purpose in life. I siphon all this emotion into my writing, which is why it’s so unbelievably amazing. It’s filled with real-life feelings, only stuffed into troubled gay band members who would really love to fuck each other. No, I’m not an idiot, I don’t actually believe they want each other, but my stories will convince you that they do because they’re filled with so much raw emotion. My characters are more realistic on paper than you are in the real world. They’re much better looking, too.
I would love to meet the people who I write about. I know that they would be enamoured by my fun and intelligent personality. We would be best friends... or more. We would have long conversations about art and literature, and then we would fuck. Sometimes, I write stories about this happening- which I can totally pull off, because I’m that good of a writer. Obviously, this is completely different from all you stupid little teenies who want to screw Gerard Way and write bad het about it. He’ll never want you, so please stop boring me with all your childish fantasies.
This has been great, but I need to go back to my internet kingdom so that I can tell people that they suck at writing and should give up. This is so benevolent (see, I use big words because I am smart, unlike most of you) of me- if I don’t tell them, who will? What if they go their whole life believing they’re as good as me? Of course, no one just writes for fun about what they want to write about. Everything is a competition, or else they never would’ve posted their stories for everyone to read. Duh. What writer in their right mind would do that, anyways?
See, I can act like this and everybody still loves me because I am the only sarcastic little bitch in this corner of the internet.
Not registered?
Create an account