If I got that wrong here or there, it's only because I'm reciting it from memory, because it's pretty much what I've been trying to say all along. You, me, best-selling novelist guy over there, lonely photographer lady, God grant we could all hear those words once a day: We're not actors in your passion play, we're not assigned to bring you heartache, we're not actively taking part in the drama of what it's like to be you. We're dealing with our own self-obsessed bullshit, and to be honest, we want to like you, but we probably only notice you when you fuck with us. So stop fucking with us and weed your own garden first, please -- it's why we don't like you. Yet.