A rant against my creator

For those of you who don't know who I am, my name is Stark. Yorick Stark. I've always wanted to say that, but She won't let me. Too done, She tells me. Too Bond.

Like She knows anything. She doesn't even like James Bond. And She calls me crazy. Well, I am crazy. It's Her fault though. She made me crazy.

Why?

Oh, She says, batting those big brown doe eyes, it'll be more interesting.

It will be more interesting. What is wrong with Her? She puts us through living hell. Tortures us. Torments us. Dangles the promise of better things to come in front of us, if we can just jump through one more of Her blasted hoops, and when we finally manage to finish all of the tasks She set out for us, do we get the better things? Of course not. Because that wouldn't be entertaining enough for Her.

Oh She claims to love us, to care about what happens to us. I think She's full of it. She's pure evil.

Ah well, at least She lets me play with big guns and hand grenades. She can't be all that bad. Even Hitler did some good--like coming up with the blow up doll.