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The perfunctory margin of disbelief

Apprenticed to May 9, 1999.

On the sixth day of this month of this year, within this millennium, I think, I was matriculated into the perfunctory margin of disbelief as usual. After eating my almond and pepperoni pizza, and drinking another keg of coffee, I pondered more on the new meaning of semper sic tyrannis. The matrix was a moot point after someone made a mockery of everything it stood for.

Y2K is coming??? This Friday? Or this Saturday?? You got the wrong guy, buddy. That’s a hell of a plan. Why are you telling me this? I’m not crazy. You don’t want to go there. Nor do you want to go to Dorset. It’s terrifying. I’ve said more than enough, especially about differentiation. Differentiation. Differentiation.

At this moment, I hear the knocking of the carousel at the door of my life of opportunities wasting away here in this website’s window. Feed me to Alyssa Milano. The beer hall putsch continues unabated. I submitted my résumé to the eleventh aggregate before the deadline—February 29, 1996—but I was still rematriculated… the dog was baying at the half-waned moon as usual, when the stars began their usual screaming. It was bad. Bad, bad. I don’t want to stop her. Yeah, so do you. Finally, we can breathe. I matriculate like an amphibious cloud. Semper sic tyrannis means something at the University of Tromsø…