If you're poor, DON'T ADD TO THIS FOLD. If

If you're poor, DON'T ADD TO THIS FOLD. If you're hungry, DON'T ADD TO THIS FOLD. If you're oppressed or persecuted, DON'T ADD TO THIS FOLD. If you're a woman or a man, DON'T ADD

TO THIS FOLD. Peter ignored the warning, showing his complete control over the situation. He stood proud, with his hands on his hips. He was not going to let a silly fold ruin his

mental state. It was an entirely wrathless state he achieved with 10 years of total indifference at work and in the bedroom. But this fold, THIS FOLD. Peter's dormant neurons awoke

and fired wildly and without restraint. The neurons had slept too long, and this fold was just in the wrong place at the right time. Peter's ennui was blasted from the page

by a veritable storm of neuronal activity. Peter's ennui floated somewhere above his frontal parietal lobe. Peter was having an epileptic seizure.. Fold and Pass flashed rapidly as

his future as a superstar Folder seemed to dwindle with every passing second. "You can still finish this, just concentrate!" a faint voice in his epilepsy-wracked brain told him.

He wondered if a hit of acid would silence that faint voice. He ate the sugar cube. His fold went all oogly-woogly and the faint voice became a shrieking raptor. It said, "Write

me. Write me gooood baby." He looked around, saw no one, and looked back at his fold on the screen. The voice said "Well, that's all you got, huh? Shoulda known. You were always

a taker, not a giver. You NEVER vote for my folds, you slacker!" The voice from his computer screen pouted. "Let's make a deal, shall we? Write one decent fold, just ONE, & I'll

give you my vote". He thought for a bit - and then started writing. When hitting "fold & pass" he heard a strange noise. It was the sound of the alarm clock. Damn, it was a dream.