“Did a great job, this boredom,of transcending similesejaculated on a tissue paperinto a means of sulking one’s selfnot up to deathbut up to an ultimate organismal perfection.Because greed for perfectionhappens to kill a persononly a little smoother thandecaying one’s visceraby facilitating a one-man,9 days constipation marathon.Doom thyself by multiplyingthe number of the passing cockroachesby the number of times Erap Estrada would beapplauded for his politicaland psychological indolences,Or might as well cheer up!Exhilarate thy own selfby gathering anotherroll of tissue paper,a hand-full of Vaseline,just incase thy palmcomes in need of lubricant,and a functional, fully-inked tech-pen.On this night, the comfort roomis the more decent place to be.Better be the first person to write poetry abouthow a grandpa, in the middle of a hypothalamic stimulatory phase,at the bosom of a teenage potential queen of the estrus cannibalism,lived life to its lengthiest extent, un-incapacitated by any mortal limitations;and about how he ended it just as how the general society prescribes it to be:extroverted.Upright.Productive.”