You stole my story and something's got to be done about it.
If someone asks me, __hy do you write?_ I can reply by pointing out that it is a very dumb question. Nevertheless, there is an answer. I write because I hate. A lot. Hard. And if someone asks me the inevitable next dumb question, __hy do you write the way you do?_ I must answer that I wish to make my hatred acceptable because my hatred is much of me, if not the best part. Writing is a way of making the writer acceptable to the world__very cheap, dumb, nasty thought, every despicable desire, every noble sentiment, every expensive taste.
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If someone asks me, __hy do you write?_ I can reply by pointing out that it is a very dumb question. Nevertheless, there is an answer. I write because I hate. A lot. Hard. And if someone asks me the inevitable next dumb question, __hy do you write the way you do?_ I must answer that I wish to make my hatred acceptable because my hatred is much of me, if not the best part. Writing is a way of making the writer acceptable to the world__very cheap, dumb, nasty thought, every despicable desire, every noble sentiment, every expensive taste.
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Looking down from my throne full of thorns, I glanced at the people on Earth. Oh, man. I despised them. It wasn__ like they were becoming better humans or anything, Devil forbid. In fact, they all roasted in their sin, mayonnaised in their stupidity, tomato-sauced in their envy and anger toward each other....