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I sat trembling. My cumulative author ranking had gone down by 0.09 stars, even after half a day of assigning my own work the highest possible score. "Short of the Week" honors? What an asshole. I must have been dreaming.
Blindly, I headed for the fridge, snatched two more thighs from the bucket of Popeye's chicken I had purchased earlier and laid into them with fury. They felt good going down, but it was no use--here came the inevitable rush of pain. I swept the bones into the empty trashcan under my desk; the metallic sound as they hit the bottom made the cat look up. After wiping my greasy fingers on my sock, I began to pick the crispy tidbits off my shirt and pants and absently popped them into my mouth while my mind raced. How could this have happened? I mean, how many people could possibly have voted against me? Maybe it was just ONE person. Yeah...I'll bet it was Jimson...she's always managed to find ways to get at me. Bitch ! No! It must have been Brad...he plays piano... Maybe the whole system is fixed...No, it isn't fixed, you stupid piece of shit. You just suck. Your writing is fucking garbage! You fucking loser.
I'd promised myself that I would not cry again, but my throat was aching now and my chin had begun to quiver. Desperately I tried to fight it down. Wait--wasn't there still some pudding left? Hastily I lumbered back over to the fridge.
Date Written: April 22, 2003
Author: Jon Matza
Average Vote: 4