I told the social worker that I'm a writer, writing books. Books of what? I was flabbergasted, I didn't even feel comfortable explaining it to him because he was sat there like a judgemental toad. I couldn't stand him peering across with a smirk like I can't do jack shit, taking pride and laughter at my powerlessness. In that moment, I felt the little fucker was Napoleon. I went to underlying themes, I tried to express the existential atmospheres I was trying to explore- laughter, as though he studied this neurotic behaviour in weaker men before and it was all pretentious. Rat faced bastard, I made a joke that he looked like Negan from the Walking Dead. He smiled, leaned closer and told me that he took out a few walkers in his time. I'm the walker. I'm the lifeless zombie who thinks of themselves as more of a man. I'm not as great as he is, I'm fodder for the system to manage. He can't put me away, he's been digging into my past and is trying to make me look like a pervert.