I got a book. Partially got a book to be exact.
Its took me years to finally decided to write something that I knew will later caused confusion of something which radically means a world to me now. Thus when I spent months to even write the first few chapters, I believed it's me being me.
Its really amazing how some people can write about something that they don't even went through. How we think that we know what other's feels like. I found it even harder to understand that this fat fucking loser was nothing but a fat fucking loser. But in his writing, he was a charming little prince, swaying sword, whom girls will surrender their asses to.
Imagination is imagination and fantasy is being fantasized until it hit the right person. And it won't get any better to learn that reality isn't even close to the shit the writer was telling.
Fat fucking loser is a fat fucking loser. He died alone in a twelveth-floor apartment, dick in hand and porn on a repeat mode. Laying on the floor was his masterpiece that was soon to be converted into a fifty-two episodes tv serie.
Pathetic is, the money he left went into a foundation named after him to breed another genius in writing to continue his fat fucking loser's legacy.
Pathetic world, is pathetic.