No really, I am. I don't want to hear any of that crap you roll around inside your mouth. Those placating sounds don't mean anything to me. They never have. So cut it out. Now.
Possibly some of the most infuriating things I deal with daily are the constant reassurances of friends that I am something special. Gifted, would be a good word. I hate that word. Ever since the day my mother tried to buy me a keychain that said "I'm not weird, I'm gifted." That was the day when I realized I was a living joke. So talented, so unique, and so painfully different I soured the taste of the air around me, like lemonade in need of sugar. I'm not gifted, I'm a freak. My talent is making your teeth ache and your tongue feel thick. My writing is the same unsophisticated scrawling of the overconfident author who plasters his molested vocabulary on the page like double aught buckshot.
Don't think I'll mistake your prosaic flattery for an accurate representation of my abilities.
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