"So, Mr. Owen, this is your first time giving an interview, right? Since you don't give interviews, it has been very hard to write anything about you... but of course, you are very young. I don't think you would think about publicity a lot," asked the interviewer.
"Are we not going to talk about the adaptation of my book, or are we going to dilly-dally?" said Owen.
"Uff—okay, let's start... So, how did the idea of a whodunit come into your mind? We have seen you writing horror and drama, but never a book like this?" asked the interviewer.
"I started writing *A Good Girl's Guide to Murder* when I was just 15 years old, so in 2018. It's 2021 now, two years after its release, so it's nothing new. I was always fascinated by thriller and mystery stories."
"Wow, a genius, I have to say. With only three books, including "Guide to a Murder," you have captured the hearts of multiple people. Now my next question is, are you optimistic about this adaptation of your book?"
"I don't know. I will be going to England tomorrow for the set. Let's hope it will be good," said Owen.
"Uh-huh! Next question... how does it feel to be the most loved author of this generation at the age of just 18 years?" asked the interviewer.
"The money is good," said Owen with an innocent smile.
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Michael Owen. That's my name. I think I died. How do I know that?
Well, I was buying some diarrhea medication at a medicine shop for my explosive diarrhea. Just when I was going to pay for the medicine, a shart came out. Everyone looked at me, even the cashier who was just half my age. Yeah, it was very embarrassing. So embarrassing...that...I kinda...died? It was too much to handle. The stares, the murmurs, the disgust—in some way, all of it just piled on my heart, I believe, and then heart attack happened.
*It's okay, Michael, it's okay, just do what you have learned,*I thought.
I had learned a technique of slapping my left arm until the discomfort was gone, this way the heart eould start responding and that was a mistake. Every time I slapped, a little bit of shit came out, and the more embarrassed I got, no one even dared to come near me to help. Because of the smell. Also maybe because I was in fetal position so that I can hide my face. That put pressure on my stomach and you guessed it...
Yeah, my life came out of my as*.
Now,I was sitting at a dinner table. Right in front of me there was a storybook. If you looked at the storybook properly, you would see a lot of wear and tear. Right beside me, my mom, whom I had not seen in months, was peeling some potatoes.
*wtf is happening? Why is my mom so young, last time I saw her she was full or wrinkles... did she do some work on her face? What was it? Borax? No. Botox.* I thought.
Then I moved my hands so I could touch her face to evaluate how good of a job it was. Why should girls have all the fun? I also want that forever young face, even though I am just 30.
When I moved my hand, I felt strange. I should have longer hands, so why do they feel so short?
"Huh? HUh? HUUUUUUUH?" I screamed looking at my hands.
My hands they are...they are...they are...small and soft.
*WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?*