Pat will never be a real conservative author. Pat has no right wing opinions, no parental rights, and most importantly no book sales. Pat is a fat, homosexual man twisted by twitter and alcohol into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.
All the “validation” Pat gets is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind his back people mock him. His parents are disgusted and ashamed of him, his convicted pedophile “friends” laugh at his poor writing behind closed doors.
Conservative authors are utterly repulsed by Pat. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed real authors to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even SWFA pedos who “win” Hugos look uncanny and unnatural to a real author. Pat's sentence structure is a dead giveaway. And even if he managed to get a drunk editor to review his work, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of Pat's error prone, middle school level writing.
Pat will never be happy. Pat wrenches out a fake smile every single morning and tells himself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside he feels last night's dinner of bar tacos and shitty alcohol creeping up like a weed, ready to crush him in addition to his not inconsiderable, unbearable weight (he's fat).
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - he’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around his neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Pat's wife will find him, not heartbroken, but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and financial drain Pat represented. She’ll bury him with a headstone marked with his unverified twitter name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know an unverified, fat liberal man is buried there. Pat's body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of his legacy is a copy of Starship Repo, 99% off, at the local Goodwill.
This is his fate. This is what he chose. There is no turning back.