John's parents had been right. He was a horrible writer. His books had all flopped, and now he had no more ideas. He could still remember the last conversation he had with his mother. He had been fighting with her, she wanted him to become an engineer but he hated that. He wanted something that would be creatively fulfilling he had said. But his mother would not budge. So he left. He drove and drove all the way to new york city. Where he had gotten a job at a fast food chain, wrote in his spare time. Ever since then he had released four books. All of which he had sold almost no copies. Even John hated his books. He had those ideas for his whole life. In was his sweat blood and tears, and it was horrible. Now he just sat miserably staring at a blank piece of paper. It was then he made his decision.
The next morning the news reported a writer who had committed suicide in front of their desk. John was shocked. The night he had decided to eat ramen instead of chicken nuggets. Someone had died.
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