My dad has been here at the loony bin with me for the past two nights, His one-track mind lately has been fixated away from the usual track of discovering cures for leukemia (and/or lymphoma; I suppose his mind could more correctly be described as having two tracks)and onto the track of helping me to establish what he calls a "more sane" (but that I call a "more bourgeois") sleep schedule. He's given the staff strict orders to confiscate my technological devices at midnight and to impose strict sanctions if I manage to get them back into my possession by disengenious means before said possessions have been officially given back to me. I'm typing as fast as I can because the clock is about to strike midnight and Cinderella will soon turn back into a red-headed stepchild.
I haven't yet finished my series about the Pseudos, and I absolutely must finish it tomorrow because I'm leaving to visit them in less than thirty-six hours, and it wouldn't be right to trash them while I'm accepting their hospitality. I therefore promise to finish the series tomorrow.
My dad finally found something to take my headache away. I was beginning to think it might be with me forever. I hear footsteps. To re-phrase a song from the sixties, "They're coming to take my computer away, ha, ha. . ."