A Sea of Hypocri

I hate writers.
At least, I hate most writers.
Well, I hate quite a few writers, anyway.

And I know what you're thinking. Hate is such a strong word. Which is basically you telling me how I feel or should feel, to which I say, go soak your head. So perhaps you're wondering why my feelings towards said individuals exists in the first place. Why writers, of all people? Why not dictators, or terrorists, or pedophiles? Why hate a specific person at all when there are other forces to be reckoned with in the world? Hurricanes, Pollution, AIDS (not to compare AIDS to Pollution but ya have to agree they both pretty much suck and make Philadelphia and crappy place to live

Why, Sean, of all the billions of things to hate in this lifetime, have you chosen writers? I'll tell you why. Writers killed my parents. Ninja writers. With throwing stars fashioned from typewriter keys and their faces wrapped in ink ribbon. They killed my parents dead.

Okay, truth be told, Ninja Writers did not assassinate my dad and mom. As much as I would have enjoyed coming home as a child to find their lifeless bodies sprawled across the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood and ink, with a dozen or so type bars poking out from their font-covered faces, it did not occur and most likely never will. And I know what you're thinking now. Unresolved childhood issues much? And my answer to that is, no, but to each their own. You have fantasies of Salma Heyeck making out with Jessica Biel and Scarlett Johansson in a swimming pool of vanilla pudding and I, sometimes, day dream about parricide by way of hired Contract-Ninja-Writer-Assassins. So what?

But I digress. The reason for my contempt of aforementioned writers stems from, as most opinions do, my personal experiences with them. That being said, I will now attempt to summon my fondest memory of interacting with a writer. Please hold.

...................................

ok, I'm getting something here. Yup. Ok, here it comes. Wait for it, wait for it.....

*fart*

Nope. That was last night's pizza.

I got nothing. I sincerely cannot recall meeting a writer whose presence left anything other than a sour taste in my mouth. Much like...the flatulence...that is now...surrounding.....me an-blah. Blahflbbbt....blech, blech.

Ahem.

Now, I am willing to admit that my dealings with writers have been few and far between as of late, but, being the human that I am, I struggle with letting go of bad experiences in the past. In fact, I tend to do the opposite. I dwell. I let the resentment fester like an infected wound, allowing it to scab over before I rip it off and watch myself bleed. It's terribly unhealthy, I realize, but easy and efficient. No need to psycho-analyze myself. No deep reflections or mental explorations. It's just me, a bucket of fried hate, a bottle of bourbon bitterness, and a 24-7 television marathon of 'Why Writers Suck', most likely narrated by Morgan Freeman or Angela Lansbury.

So what is it about writers that makes them so detestable? How about the short version? Writers are full of themselves. From the start to finish, they are truly only writing about themselves and finding new ways for us to choke down their narcissist sludge. An amateur begins by writing about nothing but his or herself. Everything starts with "I" and ends with "ME". Their rants range from boastful to teeming with false-humility. Even the reclusive ones (which I find the most obnoxious) find a way to smother you with their elitism.

As a writer advances in his/her skill, their writing takes on a less ego-centric format but don't let it fool you. What they are really doing is burying themselves deep within each character, attempting to distract you with ideas of a solar-centric universe within their words, when in reality, they would, if they could, execute anyone who believed in anything other than a galaxy that revolved around them. They are creating a blanket of plots and personas, but it's really just an elaborate quilt, stitched together from their own vanities.

Upon reaching a degree of professionalism, writers turn to their early days and begin blatantly writing about themselves again. Their perspectives are sharper, they have exchanged the underdog position for a martyr role, and they really could care less what anyone else thinks because they have been around the block more than a few times and have earned the right to be BE right.

This typical evolution of the writer comes across in their demeanor as well. There is nothing worse than socializing with a would-be writer. Throughout the course of the conversation, the subject will undoubtedly turn to their life or their circumstance, repeatedly, and in the end, you will feel as though some part of you has died. You will spend the duration of the interactiong fighting for a chance to speak, and even when it's your turn to recant or share, you will feel as though the writer is hearing you but not really listening, and is in fact simply biding his/her time until they can contest your claims or speak of themselves once more. Much like their writing, their speaking will leave you despising yourself for having wasted precious moment of your life.

Okay, so that wasn't exactly the short version, but I could go on, trust me. I can't tell you how I came to feel this way, it just happened, just like all things just happen. Some of us don't like brussel sprouts. Others don't like chocolate. I can't stand writers. So it goes, as Vonnegut would say. In fact, the only thing I hate more than a writer, and don't get me started, is a reader.

But that's just me.