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On your bed you lay, uneager to figure out the life spread out on soaked sheets. Tons of unfinished courses on your computer; files laden with deadlines, their presence irking you now. Quaker Oats does it and buttered bread; relieve you of the imprinted sufferings which thrive with time. Yet you won't be one to die before your time, after all Abraham's your father and Chapter's cook is your mother. Leftovers can't be that bad; not when your mother cooked them and your job is to feed. Flinging good fortune to pigeons is bad omen means that the C&S didn't wash your head well. Charisma and your mom's boss will land you a job, Why bother you about upcoming todays, when every today is always taken care of? All I hear from you now: I don't care which day is a workday or Saturday.