[ WP ] Life is a book , and the writer is changed every year . 2016 's writer is the most incompetent one yet . Describe his relationship with the previous writers .

`` Ugh. I ca n't wait for the next Writer to be chosen. I'm sick of 2016 already. Everything has turned to shit. We have incompetent people running for president of the United States, North Korea has a fetish with weapons, the protagonist, ISIS, is causing more harm than anyone could have thought, we have a Brexit in the works ( which will be hell for the next Writer ), Greece had a monetary meltdown, and Turkey has been usurped by its own military.'' 
 
 I nod my head, listening to the rant of my fellow coworker. Gretchen has always been high-strung, but she's been my friend since I first started here. 
 
 Gretchen lets out a sigh. She shakes her head, her short brown hair not moving at all due to the absurd amount of hairspray she uses everyday. `` At least the Writer is giving me plenty of inspiration...'' 
 
 I nod again. You see, Gretchen, myself, and all the future would-be writers work together. We all work in conspiracy. It's our job to pump out as many stories as we can while trying to make them appear as factual as possible, then post them onto the internet or slip them into magazines, news papers, or television somehow. The top three conspiracy theorists get their names placed in a hat on New Years, and from those three the next year's Writer is selected... 
 
 Gretchen starts going off again about 2016. I'm not paying attention anymore. Instead, my mind drifts. I start thinking about how I would change the world if I was the Writer for 2017. 
 
 Suddenly, there's a ding on my computer, followed by several dings elsewhere in the office. Everyone falls abruptly silent, eyes wide as they read the instant message. 
 
'INCOMING. BOSS ARRIVAL IN 60 SECONDS.' 
 
 Thank god the Secretary likes all us would-be writers! Her warning resonates throughout the office. Everyone dashes to their chairs and pretends to be typing away. Gretchen and I duck into our cubicles. All conversation has stopped. The air is tense, waiting. 
 
 The elevator dings. Everyone seems to be holding their breath. The arrow above the doors lights up, then the metal slides apart. 
 
 There stands the boss. He's an older man with an orange complexion and bright blonde ( but thinning ) hair sitting atop his round, scrunched face. Our boss is dressed in a power suit of black. There are others in the elevator too. Probably Corporate. The boss' eyes sweep the office before he exits. He walks with authority, and no one dares make eye contact as he leads the way upstairs toward his glass cubicle, where he can lord over all of us. His entourage follows swiftly. No one speaks. When the glass closes behind the group of executives and the Writer, everyone lets out a sigh of relief. 
 
 A few seconds later, Gretchen peers over the wall of my cubicle. 
 
 `` You know, I think he only put himself on the ballot so that when 2017 rolls around, he'll still have influence over us even though his term is over.'' 
 
 I look up. `` Probably, but we'll have to see. He may not get elected. I wrote a scathing theory yesterday discrediting his daughter by claiming she plagiarized from Michelle Obama. People have been eating it up.'' 
 
 `` You're the only one who writes anything against him, you know. I'm surprised he has n't fired you yet. He loves to fire people.'' 
 
 It's not news to me. I know I'm going against the mainstream. I shrug and say, `` I know. I'm pretty sure he just keeps me around because no matter what I write, it still gives him more publicity. That's all he's after, really. He wants the cameras and all the attention.'' 
 
 It's Gretchen's turn to nod. She does n't say anything else, and eventually slides back down into her cubicle. 
 
 I look behind her, gazing toward the glass box where the Writer sits at his desk. He's watching me. I stare back, but he does n't break his gaze. He speaks to the people in the room without looking away, but I do n't think he's talking about me. I grow bored with him, and turn away. 
 
 Despite all his influence, I've never liked him. My distrust in him is what fuels my stories. My fingers begin furiously typing on the keyboard, pounding out another discrediting rumor as fast as they can. Maybe, if I write enough of these, people will come to their senses. Even if I do n't become 2017's Writer, I think a hell of a lot of good will come if 2016 is n't elected as President.
