Back in 2012, in the days of my not-so-distant infancy, I happened upon a website called I Write Like that “analyzed” writing and determined which famous author it most closely resembled. Obviously, being an exceptional and exquisite writer of immeasurable intellect and culture, I decided to analyze something of my own, perfunctorily written for this most momentous of occasions. It went thusly:

I am a heavy hippopotamus basking in the afterglow of a raunchy orgy. Oh how gloriously satisfied I feel, how deeply in love I now am. With whom, I cannot say for there were far too many other revelers present. I suppose the heifer with the great behind was my favorite, but I cannot truthfully say. All in all it was a great spectacle that I am now entranced with; the mass of hard bodies frothing at their orifices with the fecundity of a spring morning. I will return to the memory of that wonderful time when I am seeking refuge from the assaults of reality.

Well if I dare say so myself… what glorious writing! Never had such perfection been achieved in the literary arts, nor since! Writing this beautiful could only come from the mind of a genius, a pained creative soul whose only means of escape was through the meticulous interweaving of language and imagery. This was truly a masterpiece for the ages, a work to be remembered and revered by all who came after.

Yet despite all of this you know what that damned website told me? That I wrote like H. G. Wells.