Notes From the Underground — 8

Dear Protégés:

As I'm sure you have guessed by now, my novel has begun to take a truly masterful shape. My pen dances upon the narrative arc like the most delicate of ballerinas. My tragic hero embodies the human condition with the force of 10,000 polar bears. Perched now above the shores of the most ancient lake in the world, fueled by its great depth, I take in the Baikalian air and am rejuvinated. 

I made the grave mistake of making Tink my editor last year, having taken in too much fairy dust during a moment of weakness. She says my book is nothing but a chauvinistic tribute to my own bare-chested masculinity. Today, as we take in the view of Listvyanka, I am kindly explaining to her the ways in which she is an idiot. 

Barbie has taken a liking to peppered vodka, and cannot be roused from her resting place on the laundry. She keeps muttering something about never getting Her Little Pony when she was girl, and how Skipper received all their father's affection. It's quite depressing. Who wants to hang around someone so very melancholy? Someone of my eternal optimism cannot be bothered by such theatrics. 

With a firm hand, 

Naked Man