But nobody cares about me or the Salinger. They all think the same fucking thing, that I am the guy who buys Salinger and you are the woman who is Salinger, and you pontificate about the mouse in your house—it’s mine—and you make it about your family, the time you guys found a literal mouse in your living room, and is this how you treat me? You take my beautiful metaphor and reduce it to lame family dramedy? You feed me undercooked oatmeal and steal my mouse and shame me for buying a little piece of history I didn’t even buy?
