Veeky Forums's ultimate job as a writer

If you really think about it, why wouldn't he? Bateman is exactly the sort of pseud who would come here asking us to help him look deep and interesting.

I think you're severely lacking some axe in your system.

"I'm fucking freezing, hurry up."
"You'll get your turn alright?"
Alone in the park, the group of three emitted clouds of steam and tar-smelling smoke.
"Just cause I'm frozen half to death don't mean I won't fight you for that pipe. Hand it over."
A burning ember trapped in glass their only source of warmth, they nervously passed the pipe between them.
"Put it away, I hear someone coming."
They listened, but everything was insulated and growing still more quiet with every fallen flake. Each turn of head and sideways glance reminded them that they truly were alone, and for the moment, safe. They had nothing but eachother, and when their pockets and pipes were empty they would be torn even from that. Yet somehow the three always found themselves in company with the other two, struggling to stay alive and forcibly dependant on one another. The glowing ember turned to ask that blew away into the snowflaked winter breeze.
"She's done. What now?"
"I swear if I get any colder I'm gonna die."
Without a word they huddled together and embraced. Exchanging warmth, watching the world turn white, their minds were suspended from all care—at least for the moment.

You going to pay me for this work mr. wealthy man?

>Yet somehow each always found himself
>Turned to ash

Anyway you get the idea

...

What drug is it supposed to be?

...

That's so true, he's suppossed to be this "I'm so painfully smarter than everyone around me I can't help but be bored by their existence" character, who is more than 200 years old and was only interesting for the first couple of decades until people realized he's just a lazy hack who doesn't believe in anything. European literature is full of them.
But of course he's American so he must be a psycho too.

Lol let's review OP's wording some more.

I mean it requires just a tiny bit of introspection to see that writing about you writing and outsourcing it is much more intresting than whatever you write and outsource.

This ritual of yours is puzzling. Anybody else went through such torturous process, weekly, without fail and yet without results, I'd close the case: forlorn desperation.
Alberts hood was off and the snowlakes kept burying themselves into his curls, liquidlessly melting, as if the man's head was scalding. In a way, all the features were: an image of noble fervency, an everlasting flame, burning not to consume but to remember.
Well, John, the case is certainly closed for me. Your implication is that I want positive results: of course, I dread them, and you should have guessed so yourself considering the feeble intensity with which I toil at my task.
Checks out – never got why you seldom approach more than a couple of them. A cutthroat rate, looking at both the price of the establishment and how much you could have done with all the wasted time. So if you don't want?...
One can assume that I desire the opposite.
A rejection?
The holiest, highest of words. Only elevated by the lips of strangers. Well worth the price.
I'm curious. Explain to me, then, how can such a thing cost a fortune, supply being more than generous and demand – safe for you – nonexistent.
Demand is present, oh so present, it's a virginal market: should some suit run the numbers he 'd stumble onto a fortune. And supply? Pray, when was the last time you got rejected?
Can't recall.
The theatre gang treasures you too much; a girl might consider your offer and realize that, even if you by some abberation is not her dream mate, sending you the other way will shatter the good friendship. Alienate her pals, even. Let a ray of coldness into the cozy circle. And what chance does she stand with her better option that's worth risking for second best?
Al, I'll discard my humbleness for a second – with my influence and relative fame, they'll leap into my arms the instant I propose something. Fear, respect, whatever jumbled mess of two, people know that I'm courteous and would never abuse my power. So it must be sincere. And sincerety from a powerful man can't be rejected.
A-ha, now we've finally got there. This place's visitors can deny my advances quick, rough, without going through a paper's worth of social arithmetic. And if they don't – a shame, really, as I prefer to keep my sleep on schedule – you can be sure that I won't doubt their judgement. Still, not the goal, or else I'd at least pretty myself up.
Oh, as if there were a need.
The men, cursing their overzelous punctiality, took of the bench.The bar would open in less than ten minutes.

It doesn't really matter in my mind. You either get further to or farther from reality. The less appreciation you have for reality, the more off the deep end you go until you become anything but a wonderful person. People don't mature as they age, and don't ask and answer the tough questions about themselves, will be as good as 14 year olds with advanced bodies in my mind.
Sadhguru's a great start if you want to know more.
As an exercise, I'll try to see if I can meet OP's requests in another post.

From the center of city a stranded park of barren trees and dim lighting poked out from a quilt of snow. Here and there peaks of trees and metal poles obscured the scenery. A bench lined a hidden path, and what could only be a man sat there at an angle.
An ascott poofed out of a large winter coat akin to a marshmellow, fluffed hair poking out, and snow boots wrapped lazily around thick and sleek snow pants that glistened with a soft light similiar to the untouched sheen on the undisturbed snow.
A nose was visible. Beyond that, the face of the man was hidden by the top of his hood. An upside down smile rounded his chin.
A woman with a husky who was uncollared and silently following came up and sat down. With the marshmellow man and the small frame of the woman a bit apart, the woman suddenly drew close and with a quick action tore the man's hood off, causing his body to spasm. As the man recovered rubbing his red nose, his eyerbrows furrowed, his gaze tightened, and he slapped the woman with vehement force. A tinkle of light laughter gasped out from the petite woman in a fashionable tight red coat as she rolled about over the bench with a huge red mark on her face. The grin would reach her ears if it were possible for a human to do so. The husky remained silent, watching with sage eyes at the two.
The marshmellow man caught his breath and a corrupted singer's southern drawl belted out.
"Jeezus- Miscerla, ya dun goof'd me agin. Can't yeh let an olde man rest?"
As the laughter finally subsided and the woman stopped her rolling, she pulled out a purple hankerchief with "Misery Loves Company" tatooed over it and dabbed at her cheek with dramatic movements. Marshmellow man's stern eyes traveled down her white spindle fingers that weren't even red from frostbite.
"I have to make sure a man as old as you isn't dead," she grinned and leaned in close, going in for a kiss but never touching. Marshmellow man's gloved hand caught her mask face and pushed it back in response.
"E'm thirtee, thenk ye wery much. Lassies like you make me hurl."
"Suck a dick." Said the girl.
"I have, darling."
It was merely a jest. As far as we know.
The husky looked on in disgust and took a retreat a few feet away to curl up in the snow. Marshmellow man admired the shift of the muscles of the mighty beast and the lustre of it's coat, sighing as he did.
"Whe're's Tomma?"

"He's dead?" Said Miscerla.
"That wasn't funny the first thirty times," the marshmellow man pulled his hood back up over his face, hiding his stern brows. The woman noticed he dropped his fake accent again. Miscerla pulled out her smartphone and ignored the man as she answered texts. The wind picked up and settled. The huskies fur was disturbed quite sliently.
"Do you think if I stabbed you right now that the red would look good with the white?" Miscerla gestured to the snow, then snapped her hand to the man's coat.
"Indeed," the man agreed. His deep baritone vibrated out. If this was his true voice, then it was quite admirable.
"I love you." Miscerla tapped her smartphone and said that in monotone.
"Next time we fuck, it's in the ass," the man smirked. The girl barked back.
"I thought I told you I'm never doing anal-"
"With me?", the man responded.
The two had never had sex before. Both of them were looking straight, and neither had a change in tone during that quick exchange.
Miscerla's smartphone rang with a catchy pop tune. She answered it giving the man a quick look of apology along with a hand wave for assurance. Her voice rang out talking to the phantom person on the other side.
"Tomma? Oh. Yeah. He's fine. No, he didn't bring any beer this time. Donuts? You know I can't. I said I can't. Look, even if you bring them I'm throwing them out. Daedalus won't eat them either."
Daedalus, the husky, lied in snow with a pleasant air about him away from the two. The woman continued with a businesslike tone.
"Give him the gun next time, it'll save us both the trouble. Darling. An hour? We'll wait."
"Tomma taking the bus again?" The man smiled.
"Scenic route." Miscerla answered.
"Wouldn't mind a donut." Grumbled the man, as the woman punched his arm but hit only voluminous coat.

>who lacks talent
Talent is a meme, Trustfund-kun.

>I'm a shallow person who never had a high level of friendship and never exhibited and participated in such feels.
Then either use your social retardation as a strength and focus on that, exploring like you with your experiences would imagine the scene or get the fuck out there and make some fucking friendships. 10 people would write the scene in at least 10 different ways ... just why would anyone waste their time doing it for you?

"What a beautiful night," I murmured softly. And it truly was. The sky was filled with snowflakes, illuminated by the soft golden glow of a streetlamp. The street itself was quiet. The snow seemed to muffle all sound except for the crisp breaths of my friends, as we sat on a bench cushioned by a fluffy pillow of white. "I can't believe how dark it is," Josh said. "It's only 6 o'clock and you can barely see that pine tree right there." "How quickly they forget," Steve said while slowly shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. "I knew if we let you go to Hawaii, you'd come back different." "Like you're one to talk Steve," I cut in, "you've been gone for almost two years." "Yeah, well, at least I didn't how winter works." "Give me some time to adjust you guys," Josh said with a smirk, "I've lost the Alaskan ice water running through my veins." They fell silent for a moment and watched as snow continued to fall. It really had been a long time since we'd all been together. The summer after graduation had sent us our separate ways. I'd felt lonely since then, not chronically, but sometimes it would sneak up on me. Now, in the warm glow of the lamp, I knew for at least tonight there'd be no lying awake and wishing I was with my friends. My wish had finally come true, and every moment in itself was worth the long cold wait. It truly was a beautiful night.

paid?

Hmmm I'll try it myself in a bit. But for future careers is this how executives come at you? Or they give you concise examples and hold your hand till you get it? Because OP didn't even specify if he wants fantasy for children.

bump

sugar lump dump

>I knew for at least tonight there'd be no lying awake and wishing I was with my friends
Quite good considering the target audience
>Josh said with a smirk
fag
>It truly was a beautiful night.
Ending the story with the same proposition as the first only works if the story is longer than a paragraph.