You’re just a Bolshevik, you’re a theory nerd, you’re an avant-garde situationist manquée. Your view is that your stepma was behind the times. You read Kathy Acker, you warmed to Blood and Guts in High School, you think your stepma should have published a limited edition of 100, preferably in matte pastel (you loved the matte pastel), with her black-eyed broken-nosed glamour-puss pic on the back cover. She could have been an Emin or a Lucas, she had the chance to be transgressive, the chance to be transgressive while at the same time getting White Cube shows, programme notes citing Adorno, a shot at the fucking Turner Prize, and instead, look, this is someone who wrote a whole fucking doctoral dissertation in New Historicist shtick on Jacobean City Comedy and yet she just accepted the, she owns a flat in Chiswick because she scored a heroin deal which could conceivably also have been a feminist thing to do in the 80s, but there’s this literary purism

You know you’re just blaming the victim.

You’re a romantic at heart.

You want writers to be rebels, revolutionaries, you want them to break the machine or be broken.