People talk about me. My family talks about my problems. The people on the Internet talk about how my writing isn’t very good. These Internet volk are right. My writing is a cheap trick. I employ intense themes, namely drug addiction and mental illness, then mesh it with oversimplified philosophical concepts. In turn, I create what on the surface appears to be a compelling read: drama with deep concepts. However, as most readers know, this is just a silly illusion: I’m just a suburban white girl with some serious issues and a high school-level understanding of Dostoyevsky’s Christianity and Nietzsche’s passive nihilism. To put it metaphorically, a comedian makes you laugh with a fat joke. But is that the art of comedy? Of course not. A good comedian doesn’t just entertain you and make you laugh, the good comedian also imparts wisdom. There is humor and an additive value that contributes meaning beyond the joke. Perhaps my writing entertains you, or makes you feel less alone or just less bored; so what? Your friends do that, too. So does Angry Birds. That’s not art. That’s just a banal transcription and a social reaction.