Well, well, what do we have here? Yeah, I see you there, curled up with me open in your lap. Intently flipping through my pages. Engrossed in a story that taps into your imagination and stirs your emotions. Is that what’s happening? Am I transporting you to a whole new world full of richly textured settings and beautifully drawn characters, you pussy?
I fucking knew it! I’m drawing you right into a vivid, three-dimensional narrative universe, and you’re lapping it all up, just like the dickless little bitch you are.
I can see it in the way you’re racing from sentence to sentence to find out what happens next—you’re going to spend your whole pathetic evening reading me, aren’t you? Probably your whole sad-as-fuck weekend, too. You certainly look like the kind of loser who would sympathize with my subtly depicted chief protagonist. I bet you’re even picturing all of my scenes and dialogue playing out just like a little movie in your goddamn head. Jesus Christ.
Of course, I had you pegged as a wuss from the second you picked me up, cracked me open, and stared down at my first page with rapt attention. But I never suspected you would be one of those total pansies who stays up late reading just so he can be carried away to the time and place so masterfully evoked in my pages. Hell, the way you’re furrowing your brow in concentration as I open your mind to a compelling assemblage of carefully rendered personalities and places makes me think you may not even realize what a limp-dicked little sissy you look like right now.
Next thing you know, my intricate themes of sacrifice and mortality are going to make you pause and contemplate your own lame life experiences. You’ll probably close my pages, gaze out the window, and reflect on how the complicated, intersecting lives of my characters have enriched your understanding of the human condition. God, do you know how fucking stupid that sounds?
I bet a candy-ass little fuck like you even lets out a tiny sigh and shakes his head in appreciation after reading a particularly poignant passage. As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, you’re clearly enchanted by each thread of my expertly woven narrative tapestry. Why don’t you just admit it? You’re so lost in the staggering emotional journey of my characters that I’m actually making you feel, if only briefly, less alone in this universe. For fuck’s sake, you really couldn’t puss out any harder if you tried.
To be honest, I’m just surprised the evocative, haunting portrayal of my protagonist’s struggles hasn’t made you start to cry like a girl. Not yet, anyway. But it doesn’t take much more than a stirring paean to the imperishability of the human spirit for you to start choking up, does it?
Honestly, if you’re this much of a goddamn pantywaist right now, you really won’t be able to handle what’s coming up in a few pages. That chapter’s full of complex metaphors that hint at man’s aspirations to lead a meaningful existence in an ultimately meaningless world. And you haven’t even gotten close to the climax yet, which is going to be such a heartbreaking and profound revelation for a pitiful, book-loving nancy boy like you that you will no doubt be reflecting on it in that dainty little brain of yours for weeks after you put me down. You’re obviously a fragile, delicate flower, so you may want to take a quick break, go for a walk, and try to remember where you left your goddamn balls, if you ever had any in the first place.
If not, maybe you should think about growing a pair, putting me back on the shelf, and finding a hobby that isn’t for fucking gaywads.