He sat back and stretched his legs. He had

He sat back and stretched his legs. He had finally done it, all 600 pages. The epic "To-Do" list for the rest of his life. Number 1: wash socks...

was crossed off. He'd washed one in the morning and one in the afternoon and felt terribly accomplished. He wanted to pace himself, so he'd get to page 600 of his epic "To-Do" list

.doc right about the time his Ph.D. advisor would retire or drop dead. Either one would be fine, just fine. He stretched, looked around, and decided coffee was in order. Maybe some

lines of Nescafe. He'd started snorting instant coffee this last year. At first he'd do a couple lines on the copier, then off the bare ass of a teaching assistant. His nose bled

espresso, but it was snot very good. He was what abnormal psychologists refer to as a "high sensation-seeker," always looking for ways to take ordinary everyday objects and doing

basic bongifications. Some tubes here, some bubbles there. The usual. None of this helped his congestion, but his goal of maxing out feng shui would not be deterred by sniffles.

Although rearranging ones room according to the laws of feng shui always seems like a good idea when stoned, when he woke up he'd fatally fractured his chi by aligning his bed with

the big office chair, in which he ran into and hurt his knee. He experienced a quick and strong pain, very similar to the one he felt when stepping over a lego piece. So, feng shui

Sha Chi was attacking him. The building rotated to an unauspicious orientation. He banged his head on a hanging wok in the doorway. Poison arrows drained him of vitality. The end