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The author saw none of this coming. He did, however, see some of it going, which is still embarrassing when he thinks about it.
The author has a weakness for rhyming verse and meat sauce. 
The author regrets breaking into your soul, but he is keeping the potato chips that he stole from Rilke's soul in there.
The author teaches origami to imaginary orangutans. 
The author is seven years older than he was six years ago. 
The author can check out anytime he wants, but he can never leave.
The author took the Turing Test under artificial circumstances.
The author self-censors, self-abuses, self-entertains and self-selects, yet still seeks the approval of his scant readership to prove to himself that he exists.
The author no longer has to stoop to conquer since he bought himself this ergonomic siege weapon.
The author took a left at Metaphor and Vine.
The author is mostly water.
The author took a break from writing to write his latest book.
The author sometimes feels bored with having to spend everyday driving from Zelda to Anzibar and back again.
The author slept on his manuscript wrong.
The author climbs into the mouths of more successful writers and delicately picks the shredded bits of metaphor from between their teeth.
The author weighs in at an impressive 188 pages, dripping wet, double-spaced.
The author no longer channels Crapp-Ra, that lying spirit guide who made him say all those racist and homophobic things back in the nineties.
The author studied under there. (Ha! Did the author just make you say underwear? The author loves that gag.)
The author wants to hear more about your background in the publishing industry. Really...your uncle, you say?