“Bedford and Squalor”

That’s your problem. That’s it right there. You don’t like when other people succeed. You know
what I’m talking about it. You it to everybody all the time. You do it to me. Treating us all like
we’re you’re fucking…children. “You know I was published in Harpers, I could put you in my
zine.” Fuck you. You get published in Harper’s one time and you think you’re the god of the
scene? That was five fucking years ago, Allie. So now what? You’re the king of the zines? Ten
dollars to review a play…fucking…fifteen dollars, for, for, for a…a short story to some rich guy
who thinks he’s the next fucking Maxwell Perkins or…Fuck you, Allie. Every little success you
lord over everybody. “Gather round and hear tales of success from the great author, he’ll show
you the way!” and when we come to you and say “Hey, man, my story just got picked up by…”
whoever you’re all like: “Yeah, man, that’s a nice little zine. I used to send them stuff, too, when I
was starting out” like you’ve gotta desk at the fucking New Yorker. And next issue, guess what?
There’s your name because you can’t stand that one of us got picked up in a magazine and you
didn’t, doesn’t matter how small. So yeah, we’d all like to pretend to be bigshots, too, but some
of us don’t get checks from our family every week to live out our fantasies of success.