Faceless Reporter: How do you define yourselves?

LampsAreCool(author of Ten Things I Hate About Potter):(strokes chin and speaks in self-obsessed, nonchalant voice) To define is to limit, as my good friend Oscar always said, and limiting oneself is the bane of the modern literary artist. I can't define myself because as a best-selling contemporary novelist there are just so many different... aspects, I suppose you could say,to my innovative and somewhat archetypical personality. It's also--

(Faceless Reporter has been motioning for Self Obsessed Author to stop talking, but author has not taken hint, so he gets cut off)

FR: What is your inspiration?

LAC: Sweet potatoes. Gotta get more o' them schweet potatoes. I...like...schweet poTAToes. Lots o' kinds a schweet potatoes: schweet potata pie, schweet potata salad, schweet potata salsa, schweet potatas and yams, fried schweet potatas, BBQ'ed schweet potatas, schweet potata pasta, schweet potata a la mode--

(gets cut off again)

FR: What do you do when you're not writing?

LAC: I enjoy long walks in the woods, singing in the rain, moonlit strolls on the beach, sunset cruises, chasing rainbows, brown paper packages tied up with strings (laughs at own wittiness, reporter cringes), white satin dresses, and other frivilous shit.

FR: How was your childhood?

LAC: No one understood the torment I went through. No one understands me. It's a surprise I didn't fall into that deep, black abyss of no return... the voices, I tell you! The voices! They're driving me to the edge of dark, foreboding insanity... they whisper to me, sometimes, at night... starts crying It's hard. It really is, but I've made the best of my tormented exsistence. It's somewhat of an occupational hazard, I think...

FR: Why ARE lamps so cool?

Do not question The Lamp. The Lamp knows all, The Lamp sees all. When we question The Lamp, we question our own exsistence...

FR: Who ARE you?

LAC: I don't know. Who am I? Am I... a man? Am I... woman? Am I... neither? Both? For that matter, who are WE? Are we only metaphorically alive? Are we metaphorically dying? I know who I am. I believe the real question here is...

Who are you ? sits back as if he/she has said something profound

FR: Thank you for your time.

We were never interviewed by The New Yorker. Ignore the We's. Trivial detail.