Now, it wasn't a blog that voiced opinions contrary to mine or in any other way pissed me off in a moral sense... It wasn't incendiary, bigoted, maniacally conservative or written by a schizophrenic who had recreationally gone off their meds... It was worse. It was written by someone so offensively pretentious and derivative, I believe that seventh graders the world over would recognize in its faux Beat-generation verbiage a piss poor writer who desperately needs the world to believe that he is, in fact, cool. He is not. No one whose every blog post mentions "making out" (in those specific words) is cool. Not even in this post-ironic world.
Tonight, before I go to bed, I'm going to pray that whatever blog gods may be will spare me from such foolishness. May I never, ever, gaze at my own navel so long that I mentally fall so deep into its abyss that my only recourse is talking out of my own ass.
Just because you've read Kerouac doesn't mean that you can write like him. Nor should you try.
