Call me Ishmael, and yo mama.
I hate you. I want to spit in your face. You're the canker in my rose, the worm in my apple, the wet in my socks. You are everything that is wrong. How I loathe you. Please die.
Antipathy and Abhorrence,
How is it that, without procrastination, you've ended up at the all nighter point? You've actively worked on this before now. You haven't just set aside the paper, and left it to rot like so much paper in a rainstorm. You've -- tended it. Cultivated it like a garden, and done all of your reading for other classes, and all of your papers and the like, as well. How, on God's GREEN EARTH, did you think that this much work was really worth it for this semester?
Self, I say, you are a damn fool.
Disappointment and Exhaustion,