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To Whom It May Concern/Occupant/You;

The rumors of my demise have been only slightly exaggerated. The suicide mission was unsuccessful, so there is little else to do but sweep up the fifty-pounds of broken glass and smashed computer equipment, and start the process, all over again. So begins the frostbitten and mean New Year, a rabid junkyard dog ravenously hungry, dancing and strutting her way into another day. It is impossible to measure my discontent using that silly foot-long ruler, while you are comfortably perched up in your satellite.
"It took me three years, six months, twelve days, four and three-quarters hours, and forty-two minutes to write a paragraph, and it was only four sentences long. At this pace, my version of the Great American novel will remain unfinished for the rest of my life. These notes from the underground cannot be heard over the roar of the singing dead."
There is no poetry to be found in prose. Everything that you say comes out sounding forced, and contrived. Maybe that is the intention. Somebody needs to slap this boy around, a little bit. Wait! Somebody has already tried that. Someone else has suggested that you take a little vacation. We are considering all of our options.