Jake was your average adolescent. He lived in a terraced house on the corner of Harney Boulevard and Mon Street. Jake woke up from bed a few minutes ago, and was stretching. He yawned. Then he stopped.
"Who said that?" he asked to an empty room. "The room's not empty; I'm talking to you." He probably was rehearsing for a play. "What play?! I'm talking to you! Oi!" He appeared to be going insane. "I'm not insane! I can hear you." Now he was hearing voices. "No. I'm not. You just said 'now he was hearing voices'. Show yourself, man!" Oh fine. Here. My name is the Author.
"The author?" smirked Jake. "What, is my life a book or something? Quit spying on me you paedophile!" I am not a pedo, stupid. I am the author. I know who you are. "Okay, shut up. You are freaking me out." Jake was getting scared. Jake Awesim. 16 years old. Born 12 December 1995. Your favourite food is iced cakes. "Someone's read my Facebook and my BlogSpot, huh?" Let me finish. When born you massed 0.5kg. You wish the metric system was implemented everywhere. "Okay. Prove you're this 'author' person."
Out from under Jake's bed rolled out a small booklet. Jake flicked through it, and found blank pages.
"Hey dumbass!" he shouted. "It's blank!" That's because it is this story. Look at the first page. Jake flicked to the first page.
" Jake was your average adolescent. He lived in a terraced house on the corner of Harney Boulevard and Mon Street. Jake woke up from bed a few minutes ago, and was stretching. He yawned. Then he stopped. "Who said that?" he asked to an empty room. Holy crap," he said, shocked. Just as he said these words, they appeared at the...
"...bottom of the page."
Jake was confused. "So... I'm just a neuron in your head?" Yeah. "I don't exist?" Yeah. "I'm just a figment of some poor losers imagina..." HEY! "Sorry, did my sarcasm hurt widdle authory?" How do you think I feel? I'm trying to write a story here, and I find my protagonist answering back! "I have near-free will?" I think so. I mean, nearly everything you do and say, I have to write down. Jake then started to move around the room... oh god. He jumped on the bed, like a kangaroo. He... I can't take this. Just then the bed hardened and Jake fell.
"OW!" he cried out. "Just having some fun." He smirked. "So, what are you writing for? Booker prize? Hugos?" Not per se. "Oh. You're writing stuff for Obama's kids?" Uhh... "What then?" I'm writing for some internet thingy... "What?! So, I'm not the imagination of Phillip Pullman, or Rowling or Jeremy Strong or whatever? I'm just some wierd-ass kid's 'idiot blog'." Hey! Shut up!
"Do you really think this will get a million views?" No. "Then what's the point of..." Writing this? It's like Mount Everest. It's just... "There." Jake walked over to the window. A panoramic view of Cartley's waterfront.
"Nice view," Jake commented. "This better be real." Well uhh... "Oh god. It's not, eh? Cartley, the Californian city..." Put it this way. I'm basing everything about this city on the stuff on TV and films. "So you're from..." Birmingham. "Birmingham. 1.02 million people. Over 400 sq. km of area." How the hell...? "Well, considering I've gained Media Awareness and Broken the Fourth Wall, I know everything about the world you occupy, because there is no barrier between you and the reader(s) and me."
How come I didn't see that? And I guess, you've broken the wall, so you're able to access TVTropes.org. This is getting boring.
"I agree," said Jake. "When do I get a love interest?" When do you get a love... oh for crying out loud. You. Do not. Get. A. Love interest. Not up for negotiation. "Please?" NO. Jake then sulked. He knew he was defeated.