Colin: This guy is one of their gods. He hardly writes anything and sucks at writing.
Friend: I'm going to try to read one of his stories.
F: Hold on--it's probably not a good idea for me to read this stuff. It's going to keep me up probably, right?
C: Any shitball story he has goes into The Atlantic or New Yorker and into Best American Short Stories. Read the New Yorker one with Anne Frank in the title. You'll love it. He's forty-eight and writes a shitty story every other year.
F: I don't know how you do this every day. This is insane.
C: You're the one saying it's going to be awesome in the end.
F: It is.
C: Then he judges fancy contests. Gets invited to talk at writers retreats. Sits on fancy awards panels. Gets interviewed and bores the brains right out of your head.
F: You deserve 100 times what he has.
Three hours later, and now the middle of the night...
F: That guy...it's seriously disturbing. I've read more now.
F: He's horrible.
F: What the fuck is going on here?
F: It's fucking crazy.
F: What the fuck?