Maybe I’m strange, but I don’t care to read the meandering prose of the self-obsessed. This prose screams like a neon sign in the desert. Once you are on a page with it, it feels like someone has begun surgery on you without your permission. It’s literally that painful to read, and yet, it’s also so humdrum and quite boring besides. What drives people to obsess about themselves and then think that anyone else in the world cares?
It’s one thing to have something to say, and along the way, reveal tidbits about yourself. These can interest readers, or they may be endearing. However, they don’t distract from the reason why the piece exists.
Self-obsessed writing exists because the writer is a sack of mirrors who spends most of his or her time thinking about his or herself (and usually it is women that do this). Worse, she has opened the bag so that everyone can see her disease and she laughs embarrassedly, seeking validation for being overtly needy and self-interested.
Vanity posts are the biggest waste of space, time, and life ever created. They are worse than cheap romances, more mindless than most action flicks, and worse than bad Victorian poetry.
Often I want to write such a blistering response that the authoress will feel like I have roasted her over a spit. This is not because I dislike her as a person, or because I have some beef with what she said, it’s that I’m tired of the psuedo-coy “Look at me” disease where people have no point and no purpose to their writing except to endlessly discuss themselves.