Why the hell is she staring at me now?!
She did that when I was standing tall. Stared and stared...
Every day she would sit facing me. Stare at me. Scribble in her notepad furiously with her stubbed pencil. Think and stare harder at what she had written. Shake her head. Tear out yet another sheet. Throw the crumpled paper ball and litter the park. It went on forever.
Phew…now that I’m dead, they’re going to use a block of me to make more of those papers and pencils just to cater to these whimsical writers and their writing blocks!