Then God said, "A pox on both your houses."

This time, the author is not going to apologize for the intentional misquote. For all you know, frog face, he really did say it first. Shakespeare took himself too goddamn seriously, anyway.

If you consider yourself an observant person, you will discern, just by reading the first four sentences of this really pathetic piece that the author thinks is "post-able" (which says a lot about the author's standards, really), that the author had a very rough week and by rough the author doesn't mean rock-rough or stalagmite-rough or old lady skin-rough because by rough the author means sticking it out in purgatory, which is office-slang, of course, for, well, the office; coming home and watching underwater music videos completely by accident, you understand; having conversations with lady officemates about what kind of underwear the author would like to buy after she gets out of the office at exactly 5pm and here you are trying your damndest to read a very long running sentence that does not seem to make any tangible reference to the author's real thoughts and feelings but is, rather, the author's weak attempt to sound smart and artistic even if all she ever does, really, is lug around 6 or 7 random books to let people know that yes, she knows how to read, and more importantly, can understand what she is reading, which is a lot more than she can say about most people who are so smug about Foucault you'd think they've slept with the man and at this point you are thinking this is the right time to put a period in because you, the reader, are fed up with the author's limited vocabulary and her unoriginal metaphors but the author says to hell with that and all the other things that are occupying her mind right now like how much she has to spend these days just to go to a job she sucks at (is it the job or is it the author, really? your thoughts), how many minutes she actually thinks about going home while she's at work, how much some people hate her because she likes different and no one else really does but no one will really admit it, how many hours she thinks about her main problem, which is this: she thinks she's such an individual and she wants to get over herself but she can't, really, because she can't stand feeling mediocre and in her heart she knows she is not but she never says it out loud; she just posts her frustrations online and says it all in a long-winding sentence that doesn't know when to stop; it only knows that the word because has been used in it approximately five times and she begs you to contest that; she wants to know if there are really more because that's all she really wants: more.