Oh, joy. Another chronicler of bourgeois ennui has graced us with their presence. Curtis Sittenfeld, in her latest collection 'Show Don’t Tell,' apparently believes she’s unearthed some profound truth about the human condition by documenting the existential crises of the affluent. Newsflash: being financially secure doesn't inoculate you against being a vapid, self-absorbed ninny. Who knew?

The literary establishment, predictably, is frothing at the mouth, hailing Sittenfeld as some kind of visionary for daring to depict the 'uncomfortable moments of privilege.' I'd call it what it is: a meticulously curated gallery of meticulously manicured misery. These stories are less about genuine human connection and more about the art of passive-aggressive warfare waged across Pottery Barn dining tables. It's the literary equivalent of watching paint dry, if that paint were a particularly insipid shade of greige.

Sittenfeld, bless her heart, is fixated on the 'troubled marriage,' that evergreen narrative of two people who, despite having every material advantage imaginable, still manage to find innovative ways to make each other (and everyone around them) profoundly unhappy. She dissects the nuanced power dynamics, the simmering resentments, the carefully constructed facades of suburban bliss that conceal a roiling ocean of discontent. One almost feels sorry for these characters, until one remembers that their problems are largely self-inflicted and stem from an utter lack of perspective. These are people who mistake boredom for suffering, and whose primary form of self-expression is complaining about the organic produce selection at Whole Foods.

What's truly galling is the pretense of insight, the implication that these stories are somehow revealing some hidden truth about the human condition. They're not. They're simply confirming what most of us already suspected: that money doesn't buy happiness, it merely buys you a more luxurious brand of unhappiness. These are characters so insulated from the real world that their biggest concern is whether or not their spouse is adequately appreciating their painstakingly curated Instagram feed.

One can almost envision Sittenfeld, perched in her tastefully decorated study, observing these creatures with a detached, almost anthropological curiosity. She's like Jane Goodall, but instead of chimpanzees, she's studying the mating rituals of the Upper Middle Class. And, like Goodall, she seems to have developed a certain level of sympathy for her subjects, which is precisely where she loses me.

These people don't deserve our sympathy. They deserve our scorn. They're the embodiment of everything that's wrong with our society: the relentless pursuit of material wealth, the obsession with status, the utter lack of empathy for those less fortunate. They're the reason we can't have nice things. They suck the marrow out of life and then complain that it doesn't taste like caviar.

So, thank you, Curtis Sittenfeld, for reminding us that being rich and privileged doesn't make you a good person, it just makes you a more annoying one. Your stories are a valuable contribution to the ongoing documentation of human folly, a testament to our endless capacity for self-deception and self-pity. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden urge to go scream into the void.