Me A Literary Immortal

Girls,

Sorry I've been out so fucking long, I've been busy, taking back my man, getting my kid thrown out of school, getting myself thrown out of that goddam racist Scottsdale writing club before I even left Albuquerque and moving to Phoenix. Which I hate because it's full of goddam Mexicans and just as bad, goddam whites. I hate 'em all.

Anyway, I wanted to bring to your attention that Jane Austen could not get published in today's literary publishing scene. Some jerkoff sent four chapters of Jane's book to several publishing houses and the ones that didn't recognize the classic fucking rejected it. Can you believe that? Jane Austen cannot get published today! That's an outrage, is it not? Ignorant, Coldplay-listening, stupid, klutzy hijo de puta literary publishing world, which I know so much about.

But I'm convinced that Jane, with her fascination with manners, decorum, class, subtle feminine wiles and grace, would be in the same league as my fucking profanity-laced, low-class, toilet-minded, masturbatory and sex-filled Chick Lit masterpieces were she alive today. The courtly fan glances and the grunting rut-boar-wallowing, it's all the same stuff, mi'jas - good literature, as opposed to bad. Jane's in my league, the big one - Chick Lit! And more to the point, I'm in hers because my shit appears in the fiction and literature section of Barnes & Noble, which is proof. It's the same section as hers.

The only difference is that my work got a publisher and hers didn't. So she ought to take it as an undeserved compliment that I call her unpublishable work 'chick lit' because now that I think of it, me with a publisher and her without, means I'm actually better than her.

Toodle-oo,
Not Alisa