Normally I float somewhere between total conviction in my own brilliance, and a desperate fear of being found out.
Let me explain.
I work for a university as a lecturer. I have to write papers for journals and stuff like that.
Some days, I am awesome. I mean seriously. I have bodacity coming out of my ears. Beaucoup. I can see through everyone. I’m so sharp I can unravel bullshit faster than it’s spun. I’m a six-shootin’, fast movin’, smooth talkin’, slick-a-delic dude.
Other days, I look at all the books I’ve never opened on my bookshelf. I search for references and find ignorance pouring out of my screen. All the papers I should have read are like think slurry in my chest. It makes me feel so dirty. I feel like the secretive child I know I still am. The one who hides and masturbates when no-one is around but knows that they see.
Everything I have written is awesome.
Every reviewer who disagrees with me is an idiot.
Every time a reviewer disagrees with me, I am an idiot.
Everything I have written is dross.
