Plagiarism

Well, fuck, I've got enough verbal diarrhea to fill fifty books, but hey, why the hell plagiarize anything? It's like a coroner falsifying his findings. But a coroner isn't a writer . . . who makes his fucking living writing. That would be like a construction dude cutting corners to fatten his wallet while avoiding building standards.

Me? I have to say that I never cheated, not once, in school. Not even when it was offered to me . . . the reason being not that I have a repulsion for cheating, which I do, but more like I was afraid of the consequences of getting caught.

I always remember that the housemaster of the boarding school to which I went ran a secret test on all the boys using an invisible dye that could only be seen under a special lamp. Someone was stealing money from the boys' lockers, and he put me under it . . . apparently, enough traces of the dye showed up in the scan that he accused me of doing it. Well, nothing is louder than someone accused of something he didn't do, but fuck, if I had, I'd probably have folded under questioning. (They dropped it when it was obvious that anyone could have acquired traces off a door handle used by the evildoer). But believe me, it was more my pride that was hurt than anything else, at being accused. (Fuck you, Stagg, I hope the worms did double duty on you and you were still alive when they buried you).

Nah. The reason I do as little as possible wrong, ie. traffic tickets, driving under the influence, shoplifting, assaulting my wife is because I like my life simple. God, being a published author . . . sweeeet!

Being a published author and then pissing in your own sandbox . . .