"Would you just stop, already?" The critic sighed, rubbing its forehead in frustration. Eliza looked up at it with a furious determination.
     "Never," She spat, and and went back to typing without another word, eyes narrowed and fixed with the promise of yet another shitty story to come from her fingertips. Nothing, not even she, herself, could stop the force inside that willed her, compelled her, to write no matter how horrible it was. She would write those shitty stories until she died, mark her words.
     "Oh, for Pete's sake..." The critic whispered in defeat, head in its hands, "Oh, fucking Pete."