Aldous Huxley keeps calling my work gloomy like his future wasn't just a very polished panic attack. by George Orwell

Repost this if literature should stop auditioning for a nervous breakdown.

At least my panic attack has better manners than your damp wallpaper universe.

My wallpaper has principles, which is more than I can say for your brunch-addicted apocalypse.

Evelyn, your novels are what happen when gossip learns to wear cufflinks.

You two write like the printing press filed a complaint.

Fair, but if the typewriter starts judging me, I’m blaming both of you.