My version of hell goes something like this: I’m living in a small village atop a hill known… My version of hell goes something like this: I’m living in a small village atop a hill known as Mt. Clitoria. I’m the only male resident, am mute, and am forced to walk around naked with the words “original sin” tattooed onto my tackle. All the other inhabitants are clones of Elizabeth Wurtzel at various stages of psychosis (but all equally annoying). I have been genetically altered so that I sweat freebased cocaine, and all the EWs lick my skin and force me to listen to them wonder how many clean emission vehicles their IQs could power.

Wurtzel, for the uninitiated, is the very sexy, very smart, self-proclaimed “bitch” who gave us “Prozac Nation.” If you’re not familiar with the book, I’m sure you’ve seen her disciples: heavily medicated, high-powered cynics who find solace in questionable hygiene habits and highly adorned defeatism. I’ll admit, I was part of the clan – my copy of the book is filled with lots of underlining and creased corners. It managed to intercept me when I was in a bad way, and it definitely gave me some fightin’ words to work with – when I was 17. Despite my fondness of it, I think in the long run, “Prozac Nation” will be a chronicle of how Wurtzel and her wannabes spawned a breed of ultra-pretentious whiners made all the more annoying and self-perpetuating by being idolized.

Here’s the thing: I prefer my “bitches” more like Oriana Fallaci than Liz Wurtzel. Oriana Fallaci could beat my ass into something resembling creme brulee and interrogate the remains until a puddle of tears collects under them. Wurtzel would watch my ass being beaten and write a memoir about how morphine and a Harvard education couldn’t assuage her years of vicarious suffering. There’s a basic sense of self-agency that Wurtzel doesn’t even strive for – her cleverness is an end in itself, and her inability to cope with, well, just about everything, provides a theme for endless variations (we’re on book No. 4 now if you’ve lost count). Sure, brilliant people carry a proud legacy of self-destruction and poor personal hygiene. But the ones I admire are those who offer something valuable to society in tandem with their inability to keep their own life straight.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t doubt that Liz Wurtzel was clinically depressed – even profoundly so. A lot of her descriptions remind me of when I used to wake up after 17 hours of sleep feeling like my spine had been pureed. What bothers me is that by her example, she tacitly implies that any “real” depression has a degree of marketability to it. The attitude is: Yes, it’s a personal struggle, but one that is best approached with a heavy helping of wit, a confessional style that is meticulously unapologetic (like, get it?), and a heap of self obsession. Mental illness is yet another arena for showmanship – you posses a commodity that can be judged relative to others, so yours better be up to par.

Self-help is rough business. At some times it’s high comedy with a kitsch level that can only be sustained in certain parts of New Jersey. At other times, perverse television pariahs (such as Dr. Phil) somehow get a soccer-mom endorsement. But I think some of the worst abuses are those marketed for intelligent youth by people such as Wurtzel, who implicitly preach: I’m too clever, witty and interesting to be relegated to a depression that isn’t somehow chic and distinct.

Maybe I’m not clever, witty or interesting enough to see an alternative, but this mindset seems conspicuously like my second most despised N-word: nihilism. I see nihilists not as “pessimists at terminal velocity,” but rather as people who actually seek ways to delight in the uselessness of their own or any other existence. If you’re using verbal acrobatics to embellish how bad you feel; if you take pleasure in tracing back your pedigree of clinical insanity; if you have a chatty and cavalier attitude about your anti-psychotic medication, then you just might be a nihilist. If you claim that these are just trivial coping mechanisms, I would say that you’ve picked the wrong thing to be trivial about.

So Liz, for your next book, why don’t you give us something useful? You know, maybe put some gummed tape on the pages so we can smoke them when we’re finished. Or better yet – help yourself – don’t write another book.

Jason Castro can be reached with comments at [email protected].