"The Scat Island"
Template:NowikipediaThe Scat Island is a short story about Virginia Woolf's first encounter with an island. See, she had never seen an island before and when she finally came to one she couldn't help it and she decided to write a book about it. See, when you can't believe something you see, you just gotta write a book. You can't help it. You just HAVE to do it. No matter what it is, no matter what the context is, no matter who you are, no matter what the FUCKING hell is going on; you just gotta write a book about the goddamn thing. Cause... what else can you do? Take a picture? A picture is never going to do it. Pictures suck and people know it. That's why you write a book. That's why everytime you go into a bookstore, you see thousands and thousands of millions of books. That's why. Not because literature is cool. Not because culture is the issue. No. It is, simply put, because when ANYTHING strikes you a little odd (Even if it is the strange crunchy state of your daily oatmeal) you have to write a book about it? Why? Cause, well you know, cause it's a book. Books are well respected. See, Virginia Woolf is not respected. She never was. She was considered a hairy whore. Her books, that's what it is. Her books were respected. But not because the content. Not because of the social impact. Not even because of the Editing Company's reputation. No. It's because it's a book. A book. That's right, a book. A freacking piece of... a bunch of fucking stacked papers with two pieces of carton holding them together. Like I can't do that in my own fucking home. Like I'm not smart enough. That's what book editors want to sell you: That you're not capable enough. Well, guess what: I AM CAPABLE ENOUGH, so fuck you very much.
Anyway, Virginia Woolf finished this book by the time she was too old to remember. So she didn't date it. So the book never came out. So crap. So beat it. So anyway, after Virginia Woolf finished her book, she decided she'd do some more. Cause the only thing you ever do after finishing a book is doing some more. Otherwise you're a moron, ya know? A real moron. But I ain't gonna go deeper into that. We all know where this leads.
There's a theory that this book wasn't really written by Virginia Woolf. That it was in fact written by itself. You know, some sort of philosophical crap. Like saying "Ooh, these babies sell themselves" (The books, you know). Like saying anything. Anyway, it sucks. I read it and the name really does pay a tribute to its content.