Shit

"Shit!"
No one responds to my exclamation, which is good because anyone who did would be a figment of my deluded mind. No, there's nobody in the room.
Wait, there's a response. The fat lady upstairs stomps at me once. Or she fell out of her chair or something. That'd be pretty funny actually; her lying on her gargantuan behind, stublly arms pawing helplessly at the air. She'd be saying "help... I've fallen... and I can't... get up..." if she were like me (slightly unstable) and talked to nobody at times.
No, there's another stomp. So she's fine AND more than likely didn't hear me. She's just walking waddling plodding around up there, I should write some of that down. Anyway, it's ultimately a shame that she's fine, the hateful bitch. I swear she's trying to kill me. Or at least she would if she could fit through her doorway.
Anyway...
...where was I?
Oh, right. Shit! I start way too many stories with the word "shit". At first it was my brainchild; an element of pure unadulterated genius! Now though I've overused it to the point of derivativeaty. Derivativity. Derivativoracious? Screw it. It's become derivative. I need to mix things up (DAMN YOU FAT LADY QUIT WITH YOUR CEASELESS THUNDERATIONS FOR ONCE) before I get too stale.
Hm... Where to begin... Remember my training: grab the reader's attention with the first sentence...
I can do this...

    "Damn..."
    It was a dark and stormy night.