What does it mean to write? Does it mean to speak? Does it mean to express?
"Tonight, we shall answer those questions... On live TV, with our special guest star, ButtHair ChokeFart!"
She shits on a dimly-lit stage encrusted by a sea of spectators wearing plastic bags over their heads with faces awe drawn on them with sharpie, facades of awe plastered above their true expressions.
"Oh, the stunned faces before fame. Look at these dummies, these mannequins, these ‘freethinkers’. Do they ever sicken me? I fucking hate this show; all that it does is control and manipulate sheep’s thoughts. I loathe you lonely viewers at home. But first, let's cut to commercial."
"Okay, commercial break.” the producer roars. “I perceive it as a black formless void, but anything is better than that hellhole of a TV show. I hear the voice list off side effects while sappy music plays, but I think I'm back on again soon.”
"Just like that, and we're back. The teleprompter is there and I can literally hear the words coming out of it. I don't think it's normal. How can I live with myself deceiving all these people?"
"But I don't live, at least I haven’t for as long as I can remember. I sell a product. That is who I am. And you all consume it. I get paid when everyone buys it.”
Praise be to the system of exchange currency for goods and services. Imagine, if it didn’t exist, why would we work? To survive? Please, I'll always believe most of us long to die. I dream of the day I'm finally faced with death. This TV show will end, and I will show the world the coward I really am."