Once, when I was in second grade, our class went out for recess. I began chasing some girls around the playground. The girls then climbed onto the jungle gym, which was about eight feet off the ground. So I climbed after them, but once I got up there, the girls came down. Seeing this, I leapt after them. But, to my horror, when I landed on the ground, all the girls started laughing. That’s when I realized that my pants had fallen off. My shame was so intense that I almost fainted. Then I went to the school-nurse’s office and wept for the rest of the day.
It is on account of the above tragedy that I decided to become a writer; for I can only handle a solitary pursuit, away from people. Over the years, I have mastered my profession. Literary critics now call me “the Martha Stewart of authors” (this is a massive compliment, since Ms. Stewart is world-renowned for having tried-and-true recipes, the best home décor tips, and topnotch ideas for do-it-yourself crafts; moreover, she’s an expert at holiday party planning). Now, when other authors approach my house, hoping to befriend me or ask for writerly advice, they inevitably stumble into one of the many bear traps that I placed throughout my lawn. And any time one of my books doesn’t hit the number-one position on the bestseller chart, I get so angry that I smash my fist through glass.
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