I Confess

I am such a thief. I say that because I steal things, in a technical sense. However, I harbor little guilt nor shame for this apparent aberration of my character. But let’s be honest about this. We all do it.

Oh, yes we do. Don’t sit there and shake your head at me. You steal things too, so stop denying it. Before long you will steal one of my ideas; I just know you will. You are just like me, you thief.

I am inexplicable drawn to steal. I see a word I like, I take it. I see an idea that someone comes up with and I borrow that without ever asking. I take it and run. I never look back. And I feel no remorse for either act, for I am such a thief.

Oh, you do it as well. Don’t start lying, too. Stealing is bad enough, don’t you think?

Now, it’s not often that I stop to brag, but I thought that this was a good time to do so.

I wrote some crap yesterday, which, after a good night of rest, looked weak and feeble to me. Heck, it looked like me! Holy moley, I thought! So I got up, and after a cup of coffee I went looking around, and what do you know? I found me a word I liked, so I stole it. I took a couple of ideas with me, as well. Boy, that Clive can write. But I tell you what -- he should lock up words like Prairie.

I feel better now, confessing this, for now my appetite has abated. I am satisfied. But tomorrow is another day, so look out. This thief is always on the prowl.