You have no idea the depth of your foolishness. I have no Pulitzers, but I have had fiction published in Ploughshares and Ontario Review, which none other than the New Yorker ranked #1 and #10 respectively among all literary journals, and which you couldn't get published in if your life depended on it. Joyce Carol Oates personally accepted (and lavishly complimented) my story for Ontario Review, which of course means nothing to you because you probably don't do a lot of reading in your free time from the assembly line and therefore have never heard of her (she's considered one of the world's greatest living novelists).
I have had a play performed professionally for three weeks in Los Angeles; here again, I'm sure you have had several performed.
I have had two books of fiction published by small presses, and have been called a literary genius, believe it or not, by a National Book Award finalist.
I have sold a feature screenplay for probably what you make in six months or more of wages.
Unfortunately, I'm still as obscure as Emily ****inson was in her lifetime, which no doubt brings you, being the fatuous fool that you are, great joy. But I'm a hell of a lot less obscure than you are, fool.