Warning, clever alert:

Disclaimer: I only have a cracked-out sense of humour when I'm over-tired.

Self: okay, you, you've slept like 8 hours in the last three nights. Your brain is fried. You're going to bed.

Brain: uh, no. I want to work.

Self: okay .....

*three hours later: "spotlighting" aka Googling things on my own computer.*

Self: fine. We'll exercise the thinking out of you.

Brain: try me.

*two hours of bike-riding later*

Self: anything?

Brain: sucker.

Self: Fine, let's kill some brain cells.

*two glasses of wine later*

Brain: mwahahaa

Self: you fucker.

*another half-hour of biking around my neighbourhood later*

Self: seriously?!

Brain: check your email! Eeeeemaaaaaaaail.

Self: I'll kill you! I'll kill you fucking dead, yo!

*wine*

Self: I give up. So George Orwell got to London, eh -----

(to be continued.)

(I sure hope not.)

(but probably.)

This segment brought to you by the Aurora registration system, and my little brother's first year of university. And his inability to choose classes or tell me he wanted to deviate from the specific class list I gave him until the night before. But I now know his student number and password by heart ... which has to be good for something. Right?