Graham Holloway upon waking, at that very moment and immediately I rushed to fb expecting an intellectual flogging. To my weepy disappointment I discovered nothing. Not a word. An emptiness so profound it’s rivalled only by the vacuous void betwixt mine ears. After soothing myself with mindfulness skills learned during a unionizing Tik Tok personal meltdown about “fairness” and “being forced to work while on the clock at Starbucks,” 58 minutes later I drew my head from my tear-stained pillow to send this plea to you.
Why, Grad Student Holloway, why have you rejected my friendship? Is it because I don’t drink Bud Light while prancing about the White House lawn getting a “top-affirmative tan” like the classy lady I oh so long to be? Is it because I frequent Twitter, a seething bog of anti-virtue and censorship-phobic hate that allows the unwoke to say whatever they want whenever they like? What is it, Grad Student Holloway, that you spurn my sincere desire to bask in the intellectual superiority that is you? What virtue signal are you looking for? Do I need to set fire to a Pacific Northwest business I just looted to make police act gooder? Is that virtuous enough to get a mostly peaceful cuddle out of you? Tell me what I must do, Grad Student Holloway. If you’ll grace me with your pardon, I’m having such difficulty typing through the tears. My tear-stained pillow is calling, the pillow where the tracks of tears spell out “Please, Grad Student Holloway, please take me back to your bossom where I can suckle my gratitude for all that is you and more.”