Who?

All my life they and I thought I was a harmless writer. I was always worse than that.

I am the undead who can still write a sentence. What makes me dangerous in our day and age is that I still have cheekbones and a waistline. Also not transgendered. Or even gay. I wake up every morning expecting to see myself on the front page of the National Enquirer, which I read waiting in line at RiteAid to pay for my allergy meds.