Prompt: Write a story in which the narrator hates his/her readers.
One day I woke up, and stared at the ceiling. I decided to count the number of bumps: 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10... 11... 12... 13... 14... 15... Then I decided I wouldn't waste my time counting them and used math that a baby could understand (but you couldn't, so I'm not going to say!). So then I got up and went into class looking for a reader for my story. Unfortunately, I like none of you people in the class, so I chose to have my least unfavorite person read it – that is, the one I would be comfortable never seeing again. So I gave the story to zem, and ze read it. Then as usual ze was mean to me (like you often are) and ze didn't like the story. Don't know why; it was the best story ever, it was about me! And, even better, it wasn't about you! It started with me doing all sorts of wonderful things, and then continued with more wonderful things – you'd have to read it to see. Oh, but you can't. Oh well. So then it ends with a wonderful surprise ending. Not that you would like it, since you have no taste, but I'm sure I could sell it for millions of dollars. You couldn't do that; you'd have to pay millions of dollars to have someone read your stories. Oh well.