Semester after semester of the final nail hammered into le cercueil français being the big ole Dissertation of Workmanlike Bullshittery, I wasn't prepared for writing for nearly two straight hours for the first time in ages. No, writing offline for creative purposes doesn't count. Academia is a less rewarding mistress.
Kind of like a wife.
Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week or until my sometimes-better-half assassinates me, whichever comes first, the chicken egg smushed by the stiletto.
Anyway, the hand certainly cramps up faster when proseifying instead of masturbating, let me tell you. Hairy palms I can live with, but this, this....noooooo! NOOOOOOO!
Hey, if you get killed, don't say I didn't warn you.