I survey the surrounding lands from my shadowy fortress, my evil pigeon* perched upon my head like a truly ugly hat, the pair of us glowering down on the bane of our existence: Humanity.
*The evil pigeon is my familiar. Totem. Spirit animal. Whatever stupid thing people go about calling such creatures. Just label it the physical manifestation of my soul and have done with it.
You would think, wouldn’t you, that people would pay more heed to the sudden erection of a massive tower in the middle of the hypothetical landscape. You would be a fool. People never pay me any attention. Not really. Not enough.
Take my good-natured alter-ego, the authoress. She released a new book today. This book, if you’re interested. But you’re not.
It’s the most idiotic thing. People get all excited when you say you’re a writer, like that somehow makes you the most magical, spectacular thing (which it is, but not in the way that non-writers think), and oh, oh, what is your book about and when is it coming out? Golly gee, how glamorous, you must be so thrilled!
Tell me, insignificant life forms: Why should she be thrilled when the book launches and the only ones crowing about it are her and the crickets?
Where now are all the so-called friends who insisted they simply couldn’t wait until the very event they now all but completely ignore?
You think an artist can spend your admiration? That a lazy click of the “like” button does a thing for their career? No, simpletons, no. That is not interest. That is not caring. That is not support. You’re mistaking these things for actually useful actions like, I don’t know, spreading the word and buying the flaming book.
Popularity, I sneer. That seems the only way to get ahead in this sorry excuse for a reality. That, or forceful subjugation of the populace.
At least if there’s an uprising against me, my name will fall from every tongue.
No such thing as bad press.