On the creation of persona part 1

It has come to my attention that I may not become instantly famous in the next few months and that, whatever small financial deliverances I receive, I may well have to work very hard for them.

Upon my graduation from university two rather glaring questions persisted: what would I do with the momentous education I had garnered in my years there and who would worship my exasperatingly large talent? I did not know at the time that it would be so easy to answer these, by way of but one career choice, that of writer. In the days of facebook, twitter, myspace; when every hack, bimbo, blasphemer and blubberspout had a blog or a book coming out, how would my singular wit, literary charm, and genius be recognized? Would it float, like so much oxygen in a septic tank, to the top of the heap and be plucked up like a rose from a compost heap by a warm, affluent, welcoming upper class, or would I have to (dare the words touch my gentle lips) work for my praise, my wonderful smelling, crisp, veridian dollar bills?

I knew, by way of apoplectic religious zeal, that everything I touched would at some point turn to so much gold, but how to make others realize it? How to inspire the masses to give up their boisturious, fantastic and frankly egosentric dreams of seeing their own harlequinn dime plots published in order to give my own timeless, mesmerizing narratives the fortune and attention they so vehemently deserved?

An announcement, first, then: Attention, all young sacriligious zealots, spouting ugly nonsense from soap boxes like so many christ-freaks in Times Square! Give up your tenuous hold on your dreams, your publishers, agents, stores who find it too awkward to admit to you that your half-finished novel is filth, that you shouldn't have quit your day job as a CPA, that every word you put to paper or processor is a word made grimy, cheapened, blackened like a gangrenous foot, needing to be lopped off at the ankle. Clear off, zombies of literature, too numerous to count, your chief, your better, your prophet has appeared. Pack in, and go back to being barristas at your local starbucks, you are no longer needed to vapidly fill the time and pages until another American Master arrives to lead the people to newer, brighter places. I have definitively arrived.

There. Now that we have cleared out the worst of the worst, and have now only to deal with the entrenched nonsense spreaders, we can focus with all the more temerity on the task at hand. Obviously, I am deserving of the large house on cape cod, of summering in the Hamptons, of owning a pent house on the top floor of the Trump Plaza. But who to give it to me? Whom does one contact to announce hello, I exist now, may I please receive what I was born to have? May I be given what I was meant to own? I apologize, I do not mean to imply that any form of questioning is needed. I do not need to ask someone else to give it to me, since it is already mine, I am simply being polite.