These are the people you love to hate, and writers everywhere would love to get their claws on these copypasters, especially when they see their own hard-written work having an author’s name other than their own.
You can impressed with someone else’s work. Jeez, you can even have it framed and adore it, hanging on your bedroom wall next to Adam Lambert’s Pic singing Mad World with Simon Cowell artfully photoshopped standing and doing that ovation while he was singing those glass breaking falsettos. Then maybe, you’d have that epiphany to write something just like it and do some research and wordsmithing on your own.
You can even copy the idea, the gist, the pattern, the structure, the philosophy, egad, even the font and formatting. But to teleport every single dang word from it’s rightful place to that abominable place under your plagiaristic ancestor’s name? It must’ve taken superhuman gall to do that and thinking you can’t get caught, but what will they say about you in the afterlife? That you’ve got Xerox for brains?
And how about the anguish you cause others? The stolen earnings, the lost prestige, those book signings that you’ve pulled from under their noses and you just flash that Alec Baldwin smile while you rub elbows with the rich and famous adulating you for those words not having any umbilical cord with yez, all usurped in the name of greed and ego-tripping.
Like being a liar implied is not enough, you’re preventing your MIND from being a MAKER! You’re denying yourself the joy of literary creation! How would you share the solidarity with us writers and poets who, with frustration and dissatisfaction notwithstanding, rise to the heights of ecstasy seeing a piece of their structured and ordered thought published and appreciated by others? You’re going to fall into a quagmire of stealth and covetousness that will preclude all creativity your mind is made for.
This is your last warning, mate. Stop being a copycat and make your original line. Do it, or I’ll whip your !@#*%! myself!
~~~
Hey, this is just an essay, okay, don’t get carried away by the spicy emotions, lol.
A Harrowing Experience: Drug Addict Willing to Kill for PSP
{ June 21, 2009 @ 1:23 pm } · { Behavior, Essay, Psychology, Social Commentary, Writing, thoughts }
{ Tags: drug addicts, gory, PSP, scary, victimization, violence } · { Comments (1) }
I do hope not another human being gets involved in this that we chums experienced when we were taking our lunch break at a sidewalk cafe last Saturday. One of our office-mates were playing with his Playstation Portable with so much focus while we were happily chatting, waiting for our food. Then this very young ordinary looking man just strolls up to that friend of ours and suddenly tried to grab the gadget. At first we thought it’s one of his acquaintances just making a bad joke but when he flashed something metallic on his other hand while he was trying to pull away PSP left us stunned for a sec.
He could have ran with it had it not for the chain that held it to our pal’s wrist. That’s when he got hysterical, eyes flashing wide, teeth bared, and started stabbing him on the nape, back of the head, shoulders, and back with a flat-nosed screwdriver. The attacker was at my friend’s back, his side facing me. The girls at the next table screamed and fled the increasing violence, as blood was flying from his skin and from the instrument. I forgot myself and tried to grab the wrist with the weapon but to my surprise, the assailant’s skin was so slick, and I lost my grip on him. The other people in our group started to pummel this attacker but to no avail, he held on to the PSP as my friend was helpless and unable to extricate himself from this fiend.
That’s when I took the plastic stool and smashed it on his head, to distract him, when his intention became sharply clear to us. It shattered, but made him lose his hold, and that when a pal grappled him to the pavement. He still stabbed and slashed with the screwdriver, and he made for me. He’s obviously wired to the maximum. I ran to him with a flying kick and he fell back on the asphalt. I jumped on his ribs, feeling it give way under my leather shoes.
He got a few more blows and wonder of wonders, he still was able to run and made a getaway with what do you know, a waiting motorcycle. These crystal-meth junkies do need each other in times of urgent need. We did not gave chase, lest they carry some firearms. They sped away with nothing. But the my friend, the victim was another story. And so were those injured in the fray.
He was covered in blood from the shoulder down, the PSP still dangling from his wrist, and in shock. One of us had to lead him to the nearest clinic for first aid. Others had chunks of their skin carved out by the flimsy weapon, they too were attended to. I got hit on the lower shoulder. After the adrenalin faded, I felt my joints creak and my muscles ache.
I had a fancy not to dine in that infamous sidewalk cafe not even they’d give me a PSP for a bribe. That villain probably picked up a wrong weapon for murder, but my friend was lucky to be alive. I guess drugs do that to people, willing to kill just to steal, sell the stuff, and get a hit. I won’t forget this for the rest of my life.