Random Paper for Creative Writting Class

Originality is over-rated

Aaron Porter

Once again, the assignment was put off as much as humanly, and in some rare cases, octopussly, possible. Something must be written Wednesday or our beloved writer is screwed.

Wednesday--8am

“Zzzzzz”

--9am
“Zzzzz….not the face…. Zzzz”

--10am
Brother: “WHAT THE FUCK!! IT DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH ME YOU FUCKING HOMOSEXUAL!!”

Writer: “Shut the hell up I’m trying to sleep! You lost a life, deal with it!”

--11am
The writer falls out of bed, grabs random clothing that smells like fabric softener and drags himself to his computer.

“Ok… Need to write something.”

Eight different people message him at the same time begging for help in three different video games.

“Ok, fine. I’ll save you guys, then write my story.”

--6 hours of mindless violence later

“Got to write something… got to write something…”

Our brilliant hero stares at his blank word document for another half hour, drooling.

--4:45pm

“Zombies? No, not again. Even though I love that character… Maybe something happy! With unicorns and butterflies and.. Ok, time to suppress my feminine side.”




--4 hours more of brutal unnecessary violence and random screaming at internet people, who probably wind up crying themselves to sleep that night

“Gotta write, gotta write, gotta write… Maybe… Aliens capture a guy and force him to fight grotesque creatures in a space area, and eventually gets rescued by a cute rocket scientist.”

He turns on the TV, proud of his idea, only to see that on the TV guide channel, there’s already 14 movies exactly like this on Sci Fi.

“Aw crap!”

--9pm

Mom: “Get off the computer, bed time.”

Hero: “I need to write a paper so I don’t fail.”

Mom: “So fucking fail you little homo! Get the fuck out of my room!”

The writer suppresses the urge to disembowel her with a letter opener and goes to bed with his notebook. After an hour of worthless ideas and a new hole in his wall from smashing his head against it, he finally has another plotline.

“Maybe I could do one on a serial killer. Detective’s a week from retiring when his whole family is murdered by this guy. I could make the climax in the sewer… his flashlight dies… This is good stuff!”

Once again proud of his idea, he turns on his TV only to find 26 different titles exactly like this on court TV.

“Son of a bitch!”

Brother: “Shut your cocksucker!”

Writer: “Go to hell!”

Mom: “I swear I’ll shoot you in the head if you don’t shut it!”









--11pm
Local misfits cut the bike-lock to the Writer’s brother’s bike on the back porch. Our hero doesn’t say a thing.

“Maybe I can write something from the perspective of burglars. Trapped inside with hostages, surrounded by cops. I could make a nice offset with characters if one’s just in it for money and the other is forced to steal to survive. A sad ending when the real bad one antagonizes the cops and gets them both killed. Maybe even have a rape scene… maybe that’s a step too far… Wait a minute…”

Suspicious of his idea, the writer sifts through TV channels. Nothing has stolen this plot!
…Except fox, which by the way, kept the rape scene in the story.

“God I hate other people…”

--Midnight
Our protagonist goes downstairs to eat, only to be reminded that his brother has yet again consumed every bit of food in the house, out of spite for his younger sibling.

“Crap… I forgot to go to school today. I could’ve eaten there.”

He goes back upstairs empty handed, to brainstorm some more.

“I don’t get it. When I’m bored I can write entire novels, but when I’m told to I can’t write a damned pamphlet!”

He decides to take a break and watches adult swim for a little while.

Tuesday--3am

His head filled with images only someone high on crystal-meth could’ve legitimately created, the Writer is having even more trouble thinking of a good story.

“Maybe I can write something from the eyes of someone who’s batshit crazy. Then nothing needs to make sense. Especially if I make it a comedy.”

Our hero soon realizes this idea is basically everything on TV combined with One Flew Over the CooCoos Nest, throws his notebook out the window and makes the hole in this wall deeper.

--ten minutes of vegetation, about his normal sleep time, and another two hours of mindless violence later
“Dammit, how do other writers do this? They find inspiration… Fine! Why don’t I just write about someone who can’t take the fucking pressure and barges into school with an Uzi!! Then he goes home and-“

--one 3 hour rant about mutilating everyone he knows and blowing up every major TV station later

The writer hops in the shower, but instead of washing, just sits in a fetal position for another hour, plotting to either go on said murderous killing spree or get an F. The choice is difficult, so he decides to pick later.



--8:30am

The writer finally gets back to his computer, this time being pestered by 12 people requesting help and 3 others with life problems they feel like dumping on him.

--Several long talks about the theories of living life and more random murder later

The tortured soul’s brother comes into the room and pokes him repeatedly with a large pole. Used to this treatment, he is ignored. For the first hour.

Writer: “Leave me the hell alone!”

Brother: “Hehe… are you… buttsex man? I think you are! Buttsex man to the rescue!!”

Writer: “Why the fuck do you guys keep calling me gay?! You’ve never even had a girlfriend! Plus, you lived in your room with another guy for two years!”

--Noon
Class starts at 4, so our main character grabs the phone and attempts to find a ride.

“Ted!! You lazy bastard! Why aren’t you here driving me to school!”

Ted: “I just got home assbite! Walk!”

“Screw you dude! You drive by my damned house on the way home! Would it kill you to stay here for an hour and give me a ride?!”

Ted: “Quit crying bitch. Just skip! To school! Like the fairy you are!”

He hangs up.

“God I hate my life… And I’m NOT gay!!”




--1:30pm, at the bus stop in weather that’s in the negatives in Celsius and farenheight.

“Fuckingcoldfuckingcoldfuckingcold.”

A public bus, driven by someone well over 100, smashes its way over.

“If I die, I’ll be happy.”

--1:55pm, at the collage

“I hate my life, I hate my life, I hate my life.”

The writer decides to spend the next two hours writing anything, whether or not it’s been done.

Until he passes the cafeteria.

“I can write later…”

--one hour, a bacon cheeseburger, six chicken tenders and a slice of grease soaked pizza later

Wishing he’d brought that Uzi, the hero sits in his seat, waiting for class to start and staring at a notebook that smells like a skunk slept on it the night before.

“I wonder if I can write a threatening note to the teacher, demanding an A.”

--3:45pm

Other students begin filling into class, well prepared with their stories. They had the advantage with another 20 years of life experience than him.

Random Person A: “Sooooo! Did you write anything?”

Writter: “No, not really.”

Random Person B: “That’s too bad! I wanted to feign interest in what you were reading again.”

Writer: “I hate their lives, I hate their lives, I hate their lives…. Know what? Fuck it!”

--3:58

Our hero scribbles a paper entailing all the BS he went through for a single assignment, shares it, gets a D-, goes home, gets his Uzi, brings it back for revenge, realizes it’s a toy, gets sent to jail anyway, and continues hating his life.










This was, apart from classmates and jail, a true story. Please pity me.




End.