The sun had the audacity to rise and scrutinize my squinting eyes; what spite! Malicious Sol, you're cruel! I despise the glee displayed when you should mourn my plight.
Conspiracies arise at every turn-- newspaper fonts are set at New Times one; my bathroom scale tells lies and should be burned; "New Math" has made the mile a longer run.
If governors can pardon crimes long past, make them to be as though they never were, (and since I look quite pale in sack and ash) why can't a birthday clemancy procure?
I'm forty-nine? There's been a huge mistake! I'll stay my age and have a slice of cake.
