I wrote this while high, Okay?
There was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.
The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--
but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.
He cried, because he thought that his idea was so brilliant yet unwritable,
and while he was crying, a bird flew into his room through a window.
"Birds have to be in stories; they're really cool and stuff," the bird said.
"No, silly bird. Birds are often in stories, but they don't HAVE to be in stories. I could name at least 100 stories in which there aren't birds," said the story-writer.
"Go ahead, then, do it," challenged the bird.
The story-writer couldn't think of a single story without a bird.
In fact, the only stories he could think of were stories that specifically mentioned birds:
Cinderella...well, okay, Cinderella was the only story he could think of at all.
The story-writer ignored the bird and continued brainstorming ideas for a story.
"I know!" exclaimed the story-writer. "I will write about a girl who has a wicked step-mother and wicked step-sisters and has to clean the house all day long!"
The bird chimed in, "Oh, no, that story has already been written. It's called Cinderella."
"Shit," said the story-writer. He couldn't get Cinderella off the brain.
He sat, and he thought.
He watched the clock for thirteen hours straight.
He sipped on some whiskey.
He read books and watched films and drew pictures and went fishing.
He did everything EXCEPT write stories.
"Say, now, why exactly do you call yourself a story-writer?" asked the bird, snarkily. "Have you ever even written a book?"
"I believe you meant to ask, 'Have you ever even written a story?' dear bird. And the answer is 'no,'" replied the story-writer.
"Then how do you get off calling yourself a story-writer?" demanded the bird.
"Well, I certainly am in the process of story-writing. Therefore, I am a story writer."
"I see."
The story-writer decided that his original story idea could be plausible with a bit of modification.
He would write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story...and it would end there.
Then, there could be some realization of plot and perhaps even a climax.
Maybe the innermost story-writer would realize that he was part of a story being written by a story-writer, and his universe would implode.
In fact, a resolution to the problem of the infinite story-within-a-story could be that you have to begin with the infinitely innermost story and work your way backward, to infinity, of course.
The idea was a little scattered, but he decided that he would run with it and see where it went.
Just as he was putting his fingers to the keyboard, a woman entered the room.
"Now, woman, what on earth are you doing in my room?" chastised the story-writer.
"I was written into this room by the story-writer who is writing a story about us.
In fact, I am here to deliver that very news to you: you are part of a story being written by a story-writer who is part of a story being written by a story writer who is...well, I think you get the idea.
To infinity, and stuff."
"Well, I'll be."
"Yeah."
The story-writer realized that the reason his ideas were scattered was because they were fragments of the ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him, and the ideas of that story-writer were fragments of ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him...and so on, to infinity, and stuff.
"Your universe will implode when I shut the door on my way out," the woman warned.
"Yes, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing my story will implode after that, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing his story will implode after that...and so on, to infinity, and stuff. Right?"
"Wrong," said the woman, just before slamming the door.
As she did, an infinite number of universes simultaneously imploded. The timing of the women's entries in each of the universes was so perfect as to cause a simultaneous implosion so impressive that the result was an explosion which birthed an infinite number of universes.
And in the innermost of those universes...
...there was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.
The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--
but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.
So, instead, he wrote about a baboon that danced to "L-O-V-E" by Nat King Cole to earn money for his dying owner's chemotherapy.
It was a best-seller, especially in the cancer-having, baboon-owning demographic, and the story-writer lived extravagantly until the day that he died.
The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--
but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.
He cried, because he thought that his idea was so brilliant yet unwritable,
and while he was crying, a bird flew into his room through a window.
"Birds have to be in stories; they're really cool and stuff," the bird said.
"No, silly bird. Birds are often in stories, but they don't HAVE to be in stories. I could name at least 100 stories in which there aren't birds," said the story-writer.
"Go ahead, then, do it," challenged the bird.
The story-writer couldn't think of a single story without a bird.
In fact, the only stories he could think of were stories that specifically mentioned birds:
Cinderella...well, okay, Cinderella was the only story he could think of at all.
The story-writer ignored the bird and continued brainstorming ideas for a story.
"I know!" exclaimed the story-writer. "I will write about a girl who has a wicked step-mother and wicked step-sisters and has to clean the house all day long!"
The bird chimed in, "Oh, no, that story has already been written. It's called Cinderella."
"Shit," said the story-writer. He couldn't get Cinderella off the brain.
He sat, and he thought.
He watched the clock for thirteen hours straight.
He sipped on some whiskey.
He read books and watched films and drew pictures and went fishing.
He did everything EXCEPT write stories.
"Say, now, why exactly do you call yourself a story-writer?" asked the bird, snarkily. "Have you ever even written a book?"
"I believe you meant to ask, 'Have you ever even written a story?' dear bird. And the answer is 'no,'" replied the story-writer.
"Then how do you get off calling yourself a story-writer?" demanded the bird.
"Well, I certainly am in the process of story-writing. Therefore, I am a story writer."
"I see."
The story-writer decided that his original story idea could be plausible with a bit of modification.
He would write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story...and it would end there.
Then, there could be some realization of plot and perhaps even a climax.
Maybe the innermost story-writer would realize that he was part of a story being written by a story-writer, and his universe would implode.
In fact, a resolution to the problem of the infinite story-within-a-story could be that you have to begin with the infinitely innermost story and work your way backward, to infinity, of course.
The idea was a little scattered, but he decided that he would run with it and see where it went.
Just as he was putting his fingers to the keyboard, a woman entered the room.
"Now, woman, what on earth are you doing in my room?" chastised the story-writer.
"I was written into this room by the story-writer who is writing a story about us.
In fact, I am here to deliver that very news to you: you are part of a story being written by a story-writer who is part of a story being written by a story writer who is...well, I think you get the idea.
To infinity, and stuff."
"Well, I'll be."
"Yeah."
The story-writer realized that the reason his ideas were scattered was because they were fragments of the ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him, and the ideas of that story-writer were fragments of ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him...and so on, to infinity, and stuff.
"Your universe will implode when I shut the door on my way out," the woman warned.
"Yes, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing my story will implode after that, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing his story will implode after that...and so on, to infinity, and stuff. Right?"
"Wrong," said the woman, just before slamming the door.
As she did, an infinite number of universes simultaneously imploded. The timing of the women's entries in each of the universes was so perfect as to cause a simultaneous implosion so impressive that the result was an explosion which birthed an infinite number of universes.
And in the innermost of those universes...
...there was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.
The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--
but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.
So, instead, he wrote about a baboon that danced to "L-O-V-E" by Nat King Cole to earn money for his dying owner's chemotherapy.
It was a best-seller, especially in the cancer-having, baboon-owning demographic, and the story-writer lived extravagantly until the day that he died.
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