I ran into a guy from uni on Wednesday. His name was James or Jerry or something; everyone just called him Stone. He was a bit of an idiot to tell you the truth (he’d managed to fail the same subject on three separate occasions) but he was just so friendly.
“I’ve been reading your stories,” he said.
“Really?” I was a little surprised; I barely even knew the guy.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I have to ask. Why do you write so many?”
“Um, I’m not really sure,” I stammered.
“I guess, if you put enough ideas out there you’ll eventually come across a good one.”
“I guess,” I said, slightly confused by the comment.
“Well, good luck with that.” He smiled, shook my hand, and walked away.
I remained on the footpath for a few moments and reflected on Stone’s remark. I had just been patronized by an absolute moron.
“I’ve been reading your stories,” he said.
“Really?” I was a little surprised; I barely even knew the guy.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I have to ask. Why do you write so many?”
“Um, I’m not really sure,” I stammered.
“I guess, if you put enough ideas out there you’ll eventually come across a good one.”
“I guess,” I said, slightly confused by the comment.
“Well, good luck with that.” He smiled, shook my hand, and walked away.
I remained on the footpath for a few moments and reflected on Stone’s remark. I had just been patronized by an absolute moron.