Spite Essay

I'm not naming the name of the late bastard who expired about two years ago.  He was pompous, pretentious, a glittering B-lister who happened, also, to be spiteful bully.   I knew this prick when he and I were kids.  He used to pick on me. He was bigger.  Probably better looking.  I was a goofy little kid.  People were pricks about it.   Then, as adults, this prick made a better showing in the art department at college.  Much ego bruising on my end, I must fess up to.  But he was a fake, and I'm the real deal.  I'm a late bloomer.  And he's mingling his moles and skin tags with sea life, as his ashes were dumped at sea.

The prick was a year older than me, and right now, I'm the same age he croaked at.  I have been hoping to live a lot longer than the prick, but I'll settle for a few merry years.  Most of all, though, I need to land a book deal.  To show the bastard.  I wanted to show the prick up while he was still alive, but now it's enough to outperform his life's work, which wasn't all that great.  He had a wider following than yours truly at the time of his croaking, so there is work to do.