Seventeen Pages Later You Realize I'm Narrating Your Life

I've been writing this PELA paper for so long that I think my eyes have actually crossed. And yet, I haven't come up with one single interesting thing to say.

I have until 4:30 PM on Monday to finish it, and it's already over 16 pages long. And I'm not nearly done. Oh no, my friends. I like to start a paper in the middle, so I have yet to write an introduction or a conclusion. I have no idea what to address in either so they'll probably be another 17 pages of incoherence and name-dropping. And pretention, a good solid dab of pretention. I used the term de rigueur without batting an eye.

Last night there was fighting. It wasn't my problem. There was also drinking but apparently the 5.5% alcohol-by-volume liter bottles just don't thrill me anymore as I drank one and a beer and I was still as cold sober as when I walked in the room. Which I don't get because some days two beers is enough to tip me over.

I sliced the back of my ankle off the other day in a shaving incident, and the gory red mass has started itching, which will be the text of the note they find pinned to my jacket when they discover my body on the District Line tracks at the back of this building.

I didn't mean to stop loving you, but I'm pretty sure I did.