Write four lines of prose about someone who is: superstitious.
We haven't had a Friday the 13th since March. I'd kind of forgotten about the whole thing, to be honest. But here we are again.
I feel as though I may be coming down with a cold. My body is fighting it off as best it can though. Seeing as I'm in the midst of a job search I'd really rather not deal with that nonsense right now.
You say that you want to know my story. That you wish to record it and share it with the world. All these cameras and microphones and cables and whatnot are here for that and that alone.
Well I say that I know that you were sent here by my father and that I will not give him the slightest shred of evidence of my supposed insanity.