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He's a glorified office worker with nothing more than a title. Take the title away and he suddenly becomes no one. He's not a failed artist. He's a wannabe artist who didn't have the ability to turn his visions into a reality. So now he works at an office, reports to a boss, and draws a salary all so he can go hang out with artists and judge their work. The only people who think he's important are the ones who read his little rag that he writes for. Before today I had no idea he existed. And in a few moments when I click submit, I'll soon forget. Critics are flea's on a dog's back. A billion born a second.
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