Eff Minus Minus.

Remember that paper I was talking about writing? No? What's that? You've never been here before but the intense internet hubbub around this site drew you to it? Wonderful, welcome, friend.

Anyway, that paper. Hmmm, let's just say, "Grade prediction: Boo-urns."

I can't remember a time when I have written a paper with more consistent tripe. It was unfit for the eyes or mind of anyone. Not even someone dumb. It was terrible. And I knew this all along. I kept thinking, "Jeez, this is crap. Hoo boy, I'm gonna regret this sentence. Holy crow, is that even english?" And all the while, I kept pushing through, churning out lump after lump of stinking, rotten, fecal literature. Of course, the only reason I did this was because I had neglected to do any real work on it until the night before it was due, which is, I know, totally cliche, but hey. Man, I suck.

It was a 1000-word essay and I just barely reached that mark alive. I think I ended up with 1006 words or something, and that likely included my name, the date, the prof's name, the course name, my names up in the corners of the headers and the works cited list as well. Yuck. I have got to pull it together.

Sudden and irreversible topic change.

Reading week is almost upons. Grand!

What'll it be? Head down to the 'Pass for winter funtimes, or head over to the 'Couv for more of the same?
Tough decision. It's like having to choose between marrying Phil, the mensch, who's this really great guy with an incredible mind, heart and soul and who lives for you and only you but is pretty nasty looking, or marrying Slater, the gigolo, who's the type of guy that looks good anywhere at any time, but has the brain capacity of a pair of fifteen dollar socks. So? Who would you pick? You'd probably like to think you'd pick Phil, but you'd be wrong, the correct answer is Slater.

Actually, my sitch isn't really akin to that one at all. But it could be...

Blank stare!

Here's a block quote:

Bring home the bacon.

Ta-da!

D8ona.