[ WP ] `` Life loves the beautiful people , but I 'm there for the broken . ''

It ’ s been done before. The line that always seemed to bring out the worst in me. No matter what I thought of, it was already accomplished. Late to everything and statistically unlucky. A predicament that almost every writer was facing at this point. For some ungodly reason innovation stopped. No one even noticed because the actual nature of innovation is much like a dam. Halt the water at its source and you may have active rivers for the next few years, but eventually that dries too. The issue in our case wasn ’ t a beaver or anything with such a shotgun style solution. English caused the problem. Not the kind folk from across the pond either, the language is at fault. English never accounted for someone actually playing accountant. So, upon having the final English words placed into the dictionary, a doomsday clock was set. Obviously, the end times held by our language was not quite an explosion. It was more so a tedious and methodical strangulation of possibilities. One where even after the final bell had rung, more time was allotted for the realization of such an event to dawn upon the users. Which brings us back to now. Me sitting in my den surrounded by discarded papers, all with only one phrase or sentence sketched on them. It was the same routine, think of an unlikely sentence, enter it into one of the many government run verification sites, and pray for your statement approval and eventual check. That was how writers made a living. Sure, there were still writers in marketing, education, and entertainment but the new and very lucrative field was freelance English theory. It ’ s more of a research position than an actual writing slot, and its mostly filled by programmers who made automated scripts to run on massive farms and brute force out all the sentences. Don ’ t get me wrong, that style has its merits, but the government recently disallowed automation. However, the reason was an issue outside of massive server power. Computers aren ’ t creative and they think too literally, they could never generate meaningful yet obscure structures. That ’ s where I come in. A graduate of literary arts from a mainly engineering university. 
 
 I was officially “ drafted ” into English theory in my second year and since then it ’ s been nothing but payday after payday. All until this month. Things slowed, only 1 in every 250,000 combinations I tried was paying. What scared me the most were the checks growing rapidly in size. To put it in perspective, the last check to come in for a complete sentence was enough to live out the rest of my life with a wife and child, all wrapped up nicely in a four-bedroom house on the coast of Daytona Beach, Florida. Despite the massive numbers, I was more alarmed that this means only a few sentences are available. The few computer systems still left were on 4 or 5 word combinations, so it had to be a statement. Something that people would understand, something with feeling, emotion, and humanity. I plugged away. This was less about the money and more about being the first person to use the last sentence. The title would hold prowess, money, and influence over every other speaker there was. Even if they didn ’ t know it, I would be the first one to conquer a language. The man to press that self-destruct button and watch as the entirety of English imploded on itself after being completely swept through. 
 The confirmation never came, perhaps I misjudged the timing. Maybe it is obscure and no human can think of it. This was our fault that English died, but we blamed it on something that held no image. We throw punches and insults at a language in its own tongue. Yet it stands, all the while knowing that combinations will come to an end. 
 
 I was never a fan of literal translations. I despise them in fact. The variations and derivations always managed to piss me off, but being in this line of work meant that understanding and interpreting other languages was a must. Translated sentences are still sentences after all. Most were reasonably legible, some completely obfuscated. Although, no matter the language or culture, there was no doubt in my mind that these sentences were broken and beaten. Truly abused pieces of language, and I felt bad for them. They didn ’ t have feelings, but the pain was evident. Everyone loves a beautifully crafted piece, but there ’ s never any love for broken and discombobulated thoughts. We think we ’ re better. Somehow above these `` horrid'' pieces of material. “ People love the beautiful in life, but aren ’ t there for the broken. ” It ’ s been done before. Too perfect, it reads too well. Punch it in the teeth, give it a kick. “ Life loves the people who are beautiful, but I love the broken. ” There ’ s nothing wrong with that, it still reads well enough, and there ’ s no feeling. All this time people only seek the perfect and immortal works of art in writing. Me though, I dig, and I choke, and I brutalize these words. Forcing them into their final slots of combinations as the bigger whole of English is battered into an overcome state. I was here from the start of this project and now I ’ m resting on the millions of carcasses that I produced from butchering the language. I ’ m here for them, while everyone only appreciates the beauty, I admire the valiant and ugly, the bold and unbearable, the unreadable and broken. “ People love the beautiful in life, but I ’ m there for the broken. ” 
 
 
 
 Hi, this is my first piece I've ever written like this so any criticism would be much appreciated. I'm not a writer of any kind so please KISS me and do n't use fancy writing terms, but do n't be afraid to get gritty! Thanks!
