There you are, sitting in front of me, mocking me. Do you not understand what it takes to decorate your face with just black ink? How am I to write upon you when you are not giving me any expression or meaning? I have needs too you know? Are you amused when I wince uncomfortably searching for just the right word, sentence, or structure? I am a writer who crafts words to put on you while you laugh each day that I struggle to fill you. Be wary my white friend. The day will come when you laugh too much, or taunt me into a cruel corner. I will crumple, shred, and send you into oblivion without a thought then turn my back on your pitiful pulverized mess and pull a clean sheet from the stack. This new paper will not disrespect me, and I will continue to write whether you are a clean slate or a small mount of powder in my waste bin. I am a writer and I will fill your face with my words, and laugh at your weak attempts at ridicule. Now, step aside, I have a story to write.