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The pathetic, scrawny human pries my unwilling maw open to shove more of his sickly green paper money into me. What an idiot I was to think he was paying me for something; of course, he would take it out to buy himself another round of diabetes from the greasy, dingy burger shack down the street. I hate my owner. He sees me as lifeless... inanimate. Little does he know I have a mind of my own—a mind as sophisticated as his! How, you ask? Through literary liberty—the ability to achieve the implausible within a story. Of course, this is a story... I accept that. I, as a folded piece of leather, have a thinking mind thanks to literary liberty.

But my owner... the bastard can't see that. Ha, who knows... maybe his thinking mind isn't the result of literary liberty. But anything with a modicum of humility can at least accept the fact that maybe they do not occupy the highest level of reality... maybe they are part of a story, just like me. My owner sees himself as a god. If he is a figment of some being's imagination, he doesn't accept it. He lauds his own independent thinking... maybe if the illusion is shattered he will see that he is part of an author's story. Hell, you probably are too. Maybe there isn't a highest level of reality... everything is just a part of a story that can end at any time. Then what? What is real?

Why don't you just take pride in the scenario your author has created? I just wish my owner would acknowledge his author, I tire of his ego.

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