Who are you, Gordon Comstock?
Why do you struggle? Why you can't live the life of the copywriter and being content with it?
No. That's not how it works. It's not that easy. You prefer not to work for vile money. You are a sort of Bartleby, the scrivener, but far more radical than your colleague in Wall Street. While the scrivener keeps his job by warming up his chair, you decided that a voluntary unemployment may suit you in a better way.
Let's face it. You Gordon are a slacker, but a cultivated slacker. You are one of these laddies who think that any sort of job involving their skills for the wrong cause would be "intellectual prostitution", as they put it.
Unfortunately at your time they had not invented any of those Phds in semiotics or semiology that you would have enjoyed so much.
You live for your undercover teas and for a literary masterpiece in progress that accidentally you know you will never finish. You live not to love but for being loved. But who can love you the way you are? Your girlfriend did it, but the chances she will stand you for a long time are few.
Because, Gordon, you are boring. You play the victim way too often. You may write or speak beautifully, but who will have the nerve to read and listen apart from yourself?
It was interesting to meet you, but I'm afraid we don't have so much to talk about. And no, I don't want that aspidistra, thanks. It wouldn't really fit in my flat.
Take care, cheers