I want my award

Dear Omar,

I believe we are past neighborly pleasantries, so I will be direct. I know you stole my award.

Based on the email I received from GCLS and my flawless calculations, it should have arrived yesterday. But do I have a glass totem of literary excellence nestled securely in my arms?

You know the answer, Omar. Perhaps it is not your fault the corporation overseeing our rental townhouse community created the intersecting “Suckville Road” and “Suckville Court” with identical numbering. But when you receive a package addressed to me, you have an obligation to bring it here or at least leave it on your damn porch so I can collect it on my regular drive-bys.

But no. No. You saw a gleaming award, honoring a book that took two years to draft and revise, and decided to keep it. You probably gaze at the award and touch yourself, pretending you wrote Worthy of Love when in fact you have written zero books.

But you haven’t won, Omar. I plan to channel my rage into future books that will be even more successful, earning loads of money and accolades that will be delivered by courier to my much bigger house while you cling to my stolen glory like the sad little troll that you are.

Meanwhile, you will rue your craven behavior, not only because I plan to keep every misdirected pizza and package as compensation—though I absolutely will—but because the knowledge of your crime will eat you from inside. Perhaps one day you will smash and discard the award, hoping to forget what it symbolizes, but you can never erase the stain on your soul. You will never know mercy. You will never know peace.

[Knock at the door]

Oh, yay! Look what came:

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