It got humid in the closed room where the carpet glows, too humid for Apple's popular iPod media player. Grody Bob was out picking up hot pizza from our favorite local pie joint, so I had nothin' for no one to do, least of all myself. The paper was spinning all the same old sob stories and quaint anecdotes, all crammed between bleating adverts. I loosened my leather belt and slicked back my hair. I imagined the musical stylings of a jazz musician I know.
That was when I realized that my fingers were bleeding.
The editor-in-chief writes, "Hold onto your hot cola. Keep what you own inside your own radiant soul. Smile grimly upon thine seed and impart unto them thusly the Sublime Importance of holding onto one's own hot cola."
I dunno works for me
