Under Pressure

Four cups of beige coffe, cut in half with milk and then blended with enough instant cocoa to kill a four year-old child. Or four one year-old children. That's what kept me awake for the first half of last night's essaystravaganza. After that I relied on froot loops. I went through many a froot loop. After I got tired of that I just kept telling myself I hate myself, so staying up all night writing an essay on some poems was fun. But I didn't believe me.

At one point early on I did a word count, and I was up to 667. Know what the last word was, the one that pushed it over? God.

Okay.

Last night didn't just suck for me though, last night Toronto was colder than Pluto. I heard at least five ambulances drive past. It was very distracting. They should turn off their sirens when they go by my window.

I've been up all night though, with a two-hour nap this morning, so I'm gonna keep this short because I no doubt cannot write anything worth reading in my current state. Except this: Well Max, I forgot to say it on tuesday, and then yesterday an essay tried to kill me (it pulled a knife on me when I thought I had it pinned), but now I'm gonna say what's gotta get said.

Postmaster? I'm the Postmaster GENERAL!

- the end

. . . But for how long?