As if the rectal torture of her style
Were not enough, she has to offer us
Accounts of suffering. As querulous
As Julia upon the lonely isle
Of exile, she is ready to revile
The Fates with words that drip both spit and pus.
It’s Bitch-About-Your-Problems Day, and thus
She serves us up a steaming pot of bile.
Actually, we’re receiving this crap late—
Which calls forth further whines in limping prose.
Perhaps I ought to care about your fate,
Señora Dolorosa. Goodness knows
That charity trumps spite as love trumps hate.
In truth, though, I conclude your essay blows.