It can be said of many artistic luminaries that both narcissism and eccentricity are misinterpreted watermarks of creative genius. We turn veiled alcoholism into charming coping mechanisms, selfishness into mystical depths of introspection, sexual tendencies into triumphant phallic metaphysical conquests over the emasculation of modern man.
Are these postulations foolish, archaic or contemptibly absurd? Maybe. But only to those for whom such grand personality flaws would fall harmlessly from the sloped shoulders of mediocrity. This is not to say the author counts himself amongst this pantheon of the distinguished insolent; but shit, it damn sure seems like more fun.
