A horror writer at a literary convention was bragging about his ability to frighten people. “I am the weaver of nightmares!” he declared. “I am the lurker on the threshold of the night lands! I have peered into the abyss of ultimate terror and flinched not at what I saw! I am the monger of visions beyond the ken of mortal man, yea beyond the ken and also beyond the keith and malcolm. I am the envoy of the amorphous force that dwells in the spaces between the stars and toys with the destiny of mortals in the same way an overwrought metaphor toys with a grandiose comparison. I am the messenger of morbid menace!”

The person he addressed these words to was embarrassed and tried to change the topic of conversation by asking, “Are you planning on going anywhere nice for your summer holidays? Somewhere abroad, maybe? Flights are very cheap at the moment.”

But the horror writer suddenly turned pale and began trembling. “Oh no! I can't do that. I'm scared of flying!”

¶ Writers are full of shit.