I write like David Foster Wallace. Really?

I write like David Foster Wallace. Proof: http://iwl.me/s/d7939cdb

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!


This site says I write like David Foster Wallace, but I have my doubts. I’ll need some help from a good source.

This site says I write like David Foster Wallace, but I have my doubts: creeping, silently encroaching around my monitor like the Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys.

Flying hopes and fears

This site says I write like David Foster Wallace, but I have my doubts — they are always with me, resident like the alarm setting in a clock radio — creeping, silently encroaching around my monitor like the Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys.

This site says I write like David Foster Wallace, but I have my doubts — they are always with me, resident like the alarm setting in a clock radio — creeping, silently encroaching around my monitor like the Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys,  snuffling at my collar, picking for lice at my scalp.

This site says I write like David Foster Wallace, but I have my doubts and hopes — they are always with me, resident like the alarm setting in a clock radio — creeping, silently encroaching around my monitor like the Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys,  snuffling at my collar and pulling at my car keys, picking for lice at my scalp.

This site says I write like the massive David Foster Wallace, but I have my doubts and little hopes — they are always with me, resident like the red-eye LED alarm setting in a clock radio — creeping, silently encroaching around my monitor like the Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys,  snuffling at my collar and their little paws pulling at my car keys, picking for lice at my scalp.

This site says I write like the massive David Foster Wallace, but I have my doubts and little hopes — they are always with me, resident like the unblinking red-eye LED alarm setting in a clock radio — creeping, silently encroaching around my monitor like the Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys,  stealthily snuffling at my collar and their little paws pulling at my car keys, insistently picking for lice at my scalp.

This site says I write like the massive David Foster Wallace, his chalk-outline still visible on the street-scape of modern American writing, but I have my doubts and little hopes — they are always with me, never speaking or spoken to, resident like the unblinking red-eyed LED alarm setting in a clock radio — creeping, silently encroaching around my monitor like the Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys,  stealthily snuffling at my collar and their little paws pulling at my car keys that glitter and jingle, insistently picking for lice at my scalp, their fingernails leaving scratches that itch for days and scab over, leaving indelible marks that fade towards my brain.

This site says I write like the massive David Foster Wallace, his coroner’s chalk-outline still visible on the street-scape of modern American writing, but I have my doubts and little hopes — they are always with me, never speaking or spoken to, resident like the unblinking red-eyed LED alarm setting in a Sony clock radio — creeping, silently encroaching around my monitor like Frank L. Baum’s Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys,  stealthily snuffling at my collar and their little paws pulling at the keys of my little blue Civic that glitter and jingle, insistently scratching for hematophagic lice at my scalp, their fingernails leaving scratches that itch for days and scab over, leaving indelible simian marks that fade towards my cerebellum.

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