If Ms. Plath was their opus, their valuable, their pure gold, baby then I'm Lyle Lovett in a sleeping bag. When you chasten the mellow like I do sometimes, it barks out "gather ye remnants of the remainder while the healing is still possible". If you haven't guessed already, this is another page in the Book of Anti-perfection. It's where the imagination goes when the mattress is flipped and so does mojo.

He could've done a better job picking a starting point minus the death allegory. When his stream flows barely concealing his flimsy cover up of the morning macarena, he needs to be humming a happy tune in the very first thoughts that spring from his keyboard. Just mumblin'

So much for striving for excellence here. Great morning expectation following a great night's sleep. I'll blame it on the stifling aspect of trying to attain brilliance in 500 words or less. That and draining the snot from Herr Versatility. Ibus please do your stuff.