No rest for the wicked

Yes, I get it. I have absolutely no right to complain about the predicament I’m in, as it is entirely my own fault. It’s not like I brought home a wench who neglected to inform me of her very specific kind of syphilis that leads to a brain impairment that makes the afflicted forget all academic commitments and give them inexplicable cravings for cheese. At one point, I did speculate whether all of my lecturers had a little get-together involving swiveling chairs, the stroking of cats on laps and the wearing of monocles. I imagine that one of them would raise his or her right eyebrow slightly before posing the question ‘What if we put all of his five summative deadlines within the space of two weeks right before the exams?’, upon which point everyone would commence in synchronized maniacal laughing and vigorous twirling of moustaches. This hypotheses falls short on the premise that none of my lecturers have moustaches of the magnitude necessary to come up with a plan of such malice.

A systematic inquiry into the matter at hand therefore results in the depressive conclusion that the reason I haven’t seen the sun for the last four weeks and been forced to sustain myself exclusively on chocolate, cheese, and my own bitter tears can only be my own negligence. Nevertheless, just as there would be a tiny bit of sympathy mixed with the disgust in the look you would direct towards a poor geezer forced to urinate on his own tongue after having it stuck to a frozen pole, I ask that you feel a tiny bit sorry for me too.

The matter of fact is that I fear that if I forcefully push just out one more piece of intellectual crap through my already sore brainus, chances are that we’ll soon be looking at a very unpleasant and messy academic prolapse. Not to mention what’s going on in the rear end following a month on the aforementioned diet.

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