Dear Mr. Salinger:

So first of all, I think if you hadn't been such a hermit, you might have really appreciated the phenomenon of Twitter, and everything it had to say about your death today. But I might just be projecting my own curiousity onto you, because I think that's what people do with your books, they identify with them so much that they think you were just like them and are all up in their head/heart/adolescent bullshit. I wonder if that's the real reason you didn't talk to anyone, because you got tired of hearing how much they "related" to you. Or maybe you were secretly repulsed that you were in fact so much like the general populace, they got you. Maybe Catcher In The Rye took away your sense of specialness. And if so, even that would lift you up in my eyes, because most famous pop authors would just deny it and embrace the adoration instead of running away. But I did hear you were kind of a real asshole. Mabye that's why people related to you. The real lesson of your books is that everyone is an asshole.

If I ever become a famous writer like you, I don't think I'll be hermitting away any time soon. But it's nice that you were famous enough to have that choice. I mean, I don't see any point in my life where I'll have the choice to not ever have to be around people, never have to have a job, and can stay in my house all day independently wealthy. Lots of people saw that as a waste of your talent, but whatever. Everybody wants to make a million for their own private reasons. I'm extremely jealous you got that choice at all. You are an inspiration to young writers like me, that someday, if I work really hard at writing a book for teenagers that isn't about vampires, I won't have to talk to anyone ever again.

So I'm not really sad you died. I mean, you were ninety fucking one. Are you kidding me? I probably won't make it to eighty. Also, I probably won't write famous books. Or have NYT critics salivate over every rumour about my continued existence. So really, when everyone gets all weepy about your extremely timely demise, I kinda of want to tell them to fuck off. You lucky fucking bastard.

Also, open invitation to haunt me.