general criticisms of my critics
As difficult as it might be to believe, there are some people in this world who don't like me. Whether or not I take it to heart depends on the source and tenor of the criticism.
When critics steer clear of my personal life and give a thumbs-down to things I've written, I don't get upset and start hacking up hairballs. Instead, I feel a Christlike compassion for their aesthetic retardation. I know that time and the truth are on my side.
There's another sort of critic who focuses almost exclusively on my personal life, demanding that I be tortured or murdered for my ideological and/or physical transgressions. Predictably, these types have an entire dry-cleaner's rack worth of skeletons in their own closets, whether they be violent females, fascistic anti-fascists, or rapist buffalo soldiers. You know who you are, and there's a Karma Boomerang whizzing toward your head.
Then there are the wannabes who initially try to ingratiate themselves with me. When I ignore them, they become the harshest and most persistent critics of all. You all know who you are, too, and nothing you say or do will overcome the fact that I rejected you first.
Negative feedback only hurts when it comes from friends, because it's usually true and malice-free. If I spent half as much time listening to my homies' misgivings as I do worrying about catcalls from clowns in the nosebleed section, I'd be a thousand miles further down the Yellow Brick Road than I am now.
