A writer is sitting at the bar one night. It’s a slow night, so the bartender walks over to him and says, “You a writer, right?”
The writer nods and takes a sip of his drink, hoping the guy doesn’t tell him he has a story to tell him, the writer, and that all the writer needs to do is type it up, sell it, and they split the profits.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“You already did.”
The bartender stares at him. “Maybe you’ve had enough to drink.”
The writer raises his hand. “Ask your question.”
“When did you become a writer?”
The writer pauses. “You sure you want to know?”
The bartender nods. “Call it professional curiosity.”
The writer finishes his drink before answering. “Well, it went like this. One day in middle school my teacher looked my way and said, ‘Name two pronouns.’ I said, ‘Who? Me?’”
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