He lights fires in other peoples’ lawns and can’t stand it when the smoke blows back in his face.
His tongue is as eager to spit out judgment as a threatened serpent is to bite.
He puts out a neon sign illuminating his intellect as bright and gaudy as the insignia of a strip club.
He denies a need to prove himself right but cannot hide his itch to establish everyone else is wrong.
He is contrary merely for the sake of being contrary, hoping it will make him a snowflake like none other.
He receives evaluation with the eagerness of a man awaiting his next colonoscopy.
Having accomplished nothing of value, he envies, and must therefore deride the successes of others.
He sets himself apart from the mongrel herds and flocks and finds himself desolate.
His melancholy is the fault of others.
He is a miniscule man.
He is proud about a vacuum.
He is a troll under a lonely bridge.
Pity the critic.