I won't even get into his book written in invisible ink ("The reader becomes part of the creation process!"), or his serial novel, written in the form of a page-a-day calendar. Let us pass lightly over the time he wanted to write a book backwards, just for posterity's sake. (He flexed his fingers, and typed "dnE ehT" at the bottom of the page...) It's better, really, to forget about the time he tried to convince his friends to memorize witty anecdotes about him, for the interviews he was sure would someday come.

For two long years I wrote about him. Every time I had a half-baked writing gimmick, I put it in Neil's mouth. Then, he got out of control. I reached a point where I was doing nothing but thinking of elaborate schemes that, because of his very nature, I knew he would never carry out.

It took me a long time to realize exactly what he had done to me. I made a deliberate attempt to write about something, anything else.

I started writing a horror story. The main character was in a mental hospital, consumed by inner demons, or something equally trite. Neil stole a lab coat, and with a typical flourish, he gave my main character a red herring, winked, and walked out. "Cameo," he said.

I wrote a satire on Jerry Springer and fifteen minutes of fame. Neil told Jerry what it was like to be a fictional character, and when his book was coming out. He nodded and winked and mugged for the camera.

Even when he had no name, he was always in the margins, whispering to me as I wrote. "Yeah, this is great. How very subtle and mockingly self-referential you are, you clever clever girl."

Finally, I realized it had to stop. I had done nothing but variations on Neil's theme for years. There was only one way out.

I called him to me. He wouldn't come at first.

"Hey, Neil! Remember the time you wanted the newspaper to run a fake obituary, listing the title of your book (to be published posthumously)?"

No answer.

"Or, how about the time you wanted to claim your book was channeled to you by Shakespeare?"

Still nothing. Could he really have left me for good?

"Have you ever considered the possibilities of an online journal?"

His eyes boggled. "Yeah! I'll pretend I wrote Brad Pitt! Either I'll get all the glory of a readymade journal, or I'll be right in the limelight, battling with the real author! Then, once I'm a central figure, I can tell the world about my plan to someday write a book where every word starts with a W! I'll use numerology to determine when I submit my entries, and then I'll suddenly stop, and no one will be able to figure out why! I'll write an entry in Portugese, just to make my fan base prove their loyalty!"

In all the years I had known Neil, I had never seen him so excited. His arms were flapping wildly. Spittle trailed down his chin.

I pulled a lever, and a ten-ton weight landed on his head. I used my crane to lift the weight. He staggered slightly, and looked at me, betrayed. So, I smooshed him again.

Then I poured a sackful of two-inch ants all over him. Then I attacked him with a nail gun. Then I stuffed him into a wooden crate and set it on fire. Then I forced him to listen to Britney Spears.

He might actually have lived. I kind of hope he did. He amuses me. I just don't want him to forget who's really in charge anymore.

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