A few weeks ago, I woke up and decided to challenge myself while still tired. I was to write some fanciful prose that serves only one purpose, to show off. It’s littered with the ego and sharp, venomous wit of a megalomaniac wordsmith. It was fun. It’s also an unedited first draft so it’s not immune to error. However, given the glaring misconception of self-importance, I deserve any criticism that one can summon. I only ask that insults are said with tact. You’ll at least get an acknowledgement out of me. Just don’t expect an apology or an arguement. No time for that. Brace yourselves. You’re about to meet an asshole.
To paraphrase Nabokov, “You can always count on a [schizophrenic] for a fancy prose style.”
“I’m a rather pretentious prick of a poet who has only perfected pomp and pretty, passionate poesy over proper prose. Pontification provided at its peak to pique my puny peers’ (I pluralise peer for politeness but it’s a pleasantry to please the prostrate, pious, perpetrators of perfect prose) palatable proclivities for pageantry. Those petty, plebeian poets whose verse pierces the ear and penetrates the pages of periodicals to pander to the people who possess no poetic prowess with no prowess themselves! Pathetic. Prometheus pities those who pervert the power of his present, the fire they pillage and plunder that burns purely in the pyre; the hearts of true artists.”
– Stephen J Dawson Jr.
P.S. I rarely have time to proofread my posts and, when I do, I often miss my mistakes. As pompous as I am, I know I’m not immune to error. Everything you’ve read and are likely to read in the future are first drafts. Feel free to comment and point out any errors that I may correct them. I don’t consider it rude.