They were stealing my ideas. “The dirty rotten filthy lousy bastards…” I moaned, “They’ve stolen my ideas!” My ideas were great, of that there was no doubt. My ideas had always been great. They are more than just ‘great’ – they are inspired. I’ve always been an ideas person. Inspired ideas come to me easily – I could be doing anything and a new and totally brilliant idea would come into my head. Sometimes I can’t get up off the sofa and go to the toilet without being struck by an idea that I then have to write down in case I forget it. Nothing makes me feel worse than forgetting an idea after I have thought of it. I could bite myself when this happens.
But this was worse. Way worse. They were actually stealing my ideas. “The dirty rotten lousy thieving bastards!” I roared out loud, overcome with both anguish and unspeakable rage. “The lousy degenerate low-life scum!” I had lost the run of myself. I was beside myself with impotent fury. All around me people were getting rich on my ideas, gaining fame and adulation, gaining respect and recognition when it should have been me. They were getting my glory. And the whole time I was getting nothing – no riches, no fame, no glory, no adulation, no recognition and certainly no respect. I was the lowest of the low. I was a nonentity. People walked by me on the street without even giving me a second glance. People walked by me without even giving a first glance…
I was nothing, nobody. I didn’t exist. People didn’t just walk by me on the street – they pushed right past me as if I wasn’t even there. They walked right through me. And the whole time those strutting preening empty-headed jack-asses who had stolen my ideas were the centre of attention. They were everybody’s darlings. They were attracting crowds of admirers on the strength of my ideas. On the strength of the ideas that they had stolen off me. These guys didn’t have any ideas of their own. That goes without saying – their kind never does….