"I'm a writer. You won't have heard of me, but you'd feel ill to know how much I earn. I don't know how it happened. If I knew, I could tell you how and you'd be as rich as me. Not that I'd actually tell you...
Anyway, I always thought I'd wind up as so much more, but with the cash I have, I can't complain. You must think I'm a total asshole by now, given my boasting, but you'd hate my job, or at least hate me for it.
This job is a loaded gun pressed against my head twelve hours a day. Every time I hear that damn typewriter click I am ready to scream, convinced it's a trigger about an inch or so away from my right temple. I feel the pressure of the barrel against the side of my head, cold metal on my skin. Just as it starts to hurt, it comes. That white hot muzzle flash of inspiration that almost knocks me out.
When I wake up, it's done.
Another one of those shitty poems that you find in those birthday cards your grandmother keeps sending you.