Turn the tape off howler.

The drug man lifts his nose to the drifting haze of marijuana and aggressively pitches Mobsies: his unwritten screenplay revolving around a mob and zombies and debris in a post-apocalyptic setting. Chemicals in his narcotics-friendly mind suddenly shift to:
"Einstein's Theory of Relativity: that's something. That's..."
An impregnated pause--broken with a spasmodic shrill: "Time actually moves slower on different planets in the universe. Literally, clocks--clocks would move more slowly."
"Ginsberg should of been an astronaut."
"Endless spheres."

On the run with a loaded gun, fun fun fun, let me tell ya about it hun

After completing the arduous process of writing ten profound albeit convoluted (writing lucidly is for boring folk) pages on the historical analysis of Acts twenty-seven, I am wholly knackered. My deft ability of punctuating time will be tested with the following annoyances: memorizing some queer's poem and preparing an elaborate and eloquent presentation of the Beat generation; completing an eight page lab on sordid scientific extraneousness; catching up on like six mission journals; trying to organize handwritten notes in class because my friggin' laptop battery is moribund; order a new laptop battery; and prepare for my G test.

The latter is the ne plus ultra of aggravation. I successfully completed my driving test circa five years ago, why must I endure another? Has my driving adroitness lapsed in this five year frame? I despise my government, wasting my time. God willing, I will place an exclamation mark on this nuisance and move on with my life -- otherwise, I best get out my winter boats, as I'll be trotting through the snow wherever I go.