It's late and I should be in bed since I have an early class tomorrow, so I can't spend too much time admonishing you for your lousiness. But trust me, you were lousy and uninteresting and I've tried so long to be satisfied with uninteresting because I've learned it's better than painfully bad, but please: how many more months of mundane existance must I silently endure for fear of your ironic wrath (Don't worry February, that last question was addressed toward the year as a whole, not just you )?

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