What are you doing? Seriously? Is this any way to write a story? Next thing you know, next thing you’re telling me, Pandora opens the box and out comes Zeus or Bacchus or Gods know what and straightens the whole thing out. Have you ever even read a story? Jeez, and you call yourself a writer.
Listen up, let me tell you how it really happened, right? You can trust me–I was there, remember? I know how it all went down, and there wasn’t any of this frou-frou, none of this namby-pamby stuff, none of this florid Shakespearean bullshit.
But it wasn’t like in the movies, either, where every little word they say is all straight to the point ‘cause they gotta get on with the story. You can’t skip stuff, it isn’t fair to me. You gotta take your time, dammit–this is my life!
Yeah, that’s better, take your time, show me everything, every little detail–I don’t care if it’s boring–you’re not writing for them, smarty-pants, this isn’t their story, this is my story, means you’re writing for me. So what you think about that?
That’s right, yeah, he didn’t hit me, I hit him, and then we made out. It was hot. That’s right. That’s how it happened. To the letter. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. You can trust me. I was there. And then there was bunt-cake, followed by an orgy and the fat kid wasn’t invited.
No, he didn’t leave me. We’re still together. No, seriously. How can you remember all this shit “better than I do”? I’m the one living it, right? I’m in charge of my own destiny? I’m the one writing the story?
What do you mean, cancer? No, but–
What do you mean, cancer? This is not how it’s supposed to go!
But it’s how it is, isn’t it? Because I’m not the one writing my own story. How can you know what it’s like? How can you know, if you’re all the way out there and I’m stuck down here in this awful, horrible, depressing story? You know what, fuck you! I don’t have to take this shit!
I’ll write my own damn stories.