A bohemian

Perfectly round rings of smoke crowded at the shabby ceiling, attempting to disguise week-old dishes on second-hand furniture, coffee-stained newspapers, and numerous unpaid bills. You, looking appropriately miserable and fashionably malnourished, sat with one leg over another, regally reclining in a creaking arm-chair, with a glass of cheap red wine and a cigarette, an essential accessory for any self-respecting creative persona. To the awed and naive audience, you complained with lazy haughtiness about the world in general, your narrow-minded editor and ignorant public, while refusing to acknowledge one strikingly simple reality: Your only worth was your outrageous vanity.