NO GOOD DEED GOES RE-FURBISHED.

Now, tell me why Stephen Schwartz couldn't write something interesting like that...
It's rather late, as I'm well aware of, and I couldn't care less. Tomorrow should be a mindless, hazy day as far as I'm concerned. And far be it for life to get in my way, lest it shall be trampled under my mighty hoof.
Yes, I said hoof. Laugh. Get over it.
Moving on.
If Cynthia demands yet another essay revision, I shall rip my fingernails out, pleading insanity and that my keyboard is too painful to look at. She'll just demand that I dictate all future papers, but I'll just show her my bloody, stumpy masses deemed "digits" and evoke all kinds of spiteful sympathy. And then, she'll write me up. And I'll complain to Frank, and he'll complain to Deborah, and I couldn't stop name-dropping if I tried.
Sorry.
I must admit, however, I will be giddy as a clam by the end of December. It will be an ultimately useful change to get out of the habit of school and into the habit of "me time," as well as applying to colleges and watching rejection letter after rejection letter pile in.
I'm writing in a manner most crapfully this evening. I can't even find humor in my spitefully disgusting attempts at grammatical wit. Gross. Someone take me out to pasture and shoot, for I've no other purpose on this earth but to drone on, endlessly and unceasingly about positively nothing.
Alright. Three more sentences about Barbara Kingsolver and her decrepit team of Congolese whores--I mean, Southern Baptist missionaries--and I'll move in a bed-ward direction.
Maybe.