Good. G'night.

You decide to write a G#. That was always a suspicious note. Robert Langdon will know JUST what to do with this clever clue.

You decide to go to the school library for research purposes.\nActually you go to the comic book section and read about Popeye. You're too easily distracted. Next you'll probably start playing stupid text adventures, I'll wager. You miss your big chance at being a big professorial star. Your next career: Planar Wart.

Your death has freed you from the necessity of finishing your paper. Congratulations! You win. \nDecay in celebration. \n\nThorin enters.

You're a grad student preparing for a deadline before graduation. \nYou're sitting alone at your desk late in the evening, working on another scholarly study for presentation next month. \nSuddenly, you hear a loud squawking sound outside your study door.\n[[Walk to the door to investigate]]\n[[Angrily mumble about the lousy birds outside and go on writing]]\n[[Go get some coffee]]

OUCH! That coffee is hot! And it tastes a bit off to you, almost as though someone had added some bitter amaretto flavoring to it.\n[[Pour the coffee out and make yourself some tea]]\n[[Blow on the coffee till it's cool enough to drink]]

You open the door cautiously. Outside is an outlandishly large bird. He pecks your head off. \nOuch! You're dead.\n[[Stand up anyway]]\n[[Lie in pieces on the floor, bleeding]]

Hee hee hee hee hee!

Good idea! He'll find your killer and destroy him, her, or it. Then you play Angry Birds until the poison hits your heart. You're deader than a doornail. That must be understood.\nThe number is busy. You promise to call again from the afterlife. \nGame over. \nBut!! You must return to life and try again! [[Start]]\n[[When someone picks up, it is someone you weren't expecting: Sonya Expectorant, the great actress.]]

Owwie! Better find some mucilage or something.\n

You begin to die gradually, deliberately, hand reaching for the pen on your desk. After gurgling out "Darnit!" in a gurgly voice that gurgles from your mouth, you spend the last five minutes of your life gurgling in a whisper. \nAnd then you're dead. End of the game!

Wants a ponytime, dare wazzer ladle buoy hull eye kit two fish. He fished for fish. Anthem Hecate ape pig Sam 'un eight tit awe lup. Diane'd.

You write: \n"Dear Loretta,\n"It's been years since we met, and yet it still feels like I love you anew, now more than ever. FJWieowjeofj I'm dead."\nLove, Harry."\n\nIt's an odd note, as your name isn't Harry and you don't know anyone called Loretta.\nYour real sweetheart, later on, reads this and hires a private eye to investigate. Someone named Harry is arrested and sent to jail. Someone named Loretta is bullied in the back by a private dick named Brocklehurst.\nThen he goes home and makes some cherry cobbler. Then he drinks the poisoned coffee that you made for yourself and you realize that you actually committed suicide in another version of your life. \n\nYou feel better.\n\nLove, \nLoretta.

Scholarship: The Game

You decide to draw a picture. You do a great job, enter the drawing in a contest, win, become famous, go on Oprah, take to drink, people wonder where you are now, and then you fall into decline and debt. Boy did you fudge it up this time. What about your paper? \nJust before death, you decide to get out your 60 year old computer and write an immaculate piece of research that wins a prize. The paper goes on Oprah and then takes to drink, becomes the most popular short story ever despite having no plot, and then becomes a movie staring Greer Garson's great grandson, Farson. Success at last! \n\nHowever, since you're long gone, you have NO IDEA this would happen. It's a shame. \n\nMakes you think, doesn't it?\n\n[[Yes.]]\n[[No, I'm dead. Don't bother me, please.]]

I'm a funny little boy that's made of wood. \nI'm carved from the limb of a hick'ry tree.\nI've a funny little head and a long, long nose.\nI was disinterred not far from Interstate 65 and that's when the mayhem all started.\n\nPINOCCHIO II: THE RAMPAGE

You call your instructor and quit, move to Adelaide, and become a sock farmer. \nThe end!

She tries to encourage you to FLY HIGH with super savings at CrisCo. However, before you can accept the offer, she adds in a spatula. Gratified, you accept the offer, give Sonya your credit card number, and wait by the door slot in anticipation. Soon enough, your flight arrives through the slot. The flight is to [[Netherworld Hell]] and it is a metaphor for your death. \n

So here you are at the library. \nSoon a kindly old soul approaches you with a sword, which they swing at your neck. Your head falls off and, as quietly as you are able to do it, you spurt blood everywhere, wiping it clean as possible meanwhile. Then you're dead. \nNo more library for you! OR being alive, for that matter! Bwah-hah-hah-hawwww!\n[[I have to admit, that WAS pretty funny. ]]

Fool! That doesn't work on a sundial!\nYou are SO dead.

Obama writes a moving epiphany about you for his State of the Union address, championing you as America's Everyman and Sweetheart. You become the next president.\nYou are remembered in history as the first dead president to be elected posthumously. A brave step forward for undead rights has been taken. Or has it?\nYou have been won. Congracke rations.

Ahh, that's better now. Not too hot to drink, it's just drinking temperature. \n[[Go back to your study to start work, taking the coffee mug with you]]\n[[Drink a swallow of your coffee right away before going back to work]]

You wake up. The screen of your computer is blank; the screen saver must be off. You move over to the computer, trying to recall just what key ideas came to you last night, but you shrug it off. It's all on the paper, after all.\nThen you move your mouse. There is no response on the monitor. In fact, you realize, you must have kicked out the power line when you fell asleep. Since you wrote the entire paper in one creative burst without saving anything, THE WHOLE PAPER IS LOST and now you'll never make your deadline!\nAgonized, you ponder what to do, your head spinning.\n[[Your head falls off.]]\n[[You decide to write a paper, no matter how feeble its content]], and hope that you won't get into too much trouble.\n[[You decide that this work is too much for you.]]

You boil some fresh water and prepare some oolong tea leaves. As you wait, you recall that a bitter taste of almonds can indicate the presence of arsenic in someone's food. Thank goodness you did not actually swallow any! You rinse out your mouth and gargle and feel as if you're probably going to be OK. You take your tea back to the desk and sit down, wondering who might be against you. \nAs you work, the key idea for your paper comes to your mind in a flash. As quickly as you can, you write the entire paper out and then, eyes burning, you fall back down onto the bed to sleep, gratified that the paper is done.\n[[The next morning...]]

You swallow a nice, warm portion of coffee and head back towards your study. \nBut as you walk, your head starts to swim and it becomes difficult to breathe.\nYou stagger and spill the coffee on your sweater. You have been poisoned!\nYou crawl to your desk as one final act before your death. \n[[Dial 911]]\n[[Hastily write a note to indicate that you have been poisoned]]\n[[Write a note of love for your darling before death]]\n[[Type "Thanks, Obama!" on your typewriter]]\n[[Just die already]]\n[[Take out your cell phone]] and call your uncle, the Mafia boss.

I'm sorry. I'll leave you in peace. Or peach. Have it your way.

You decide to talk about the cleverness of Dan Brown novels. You're done in the twinkling of an ear. Congratulations, it's a best cellar!

However, oddly, you are not dead. I guess it was just some delicious almond flavored creamer, after all. That IS what it said on the jar, anyway. What a relief, Ed.\nYou head back to your desk after wiping your mouth off and making some oolong tea. You feel ready for a great session of writing.\n[[You begin to write, but the story is strange.]]\n[[You try to write]], but instead of words, sounds come out of your typewriter. How odd, you think. I thought I was writing with a PC.

How unnatural! You are a member of the walking dead. The bird has departed. You stagger down the hallway, moaning incoherently. You are still vexed by the problem of finishing your scholarly report. \n[[Return to your study to continue working]]\n[[Go to the library to do some research.]]

Gray Manichean

You get back to your own study. Too many memories linger here, like nightmares. You try to concentrate. After working very hard up to the moment of the deadline, you finish the paper to utter perfection and print it out, wisely saving it beforehand. Then you sprint to the instructor's office to turn it in.\nSadly, though, the instructor has already keyed in your final grade just as you opened the door. There is no way to salvage your scholarly career. If only you'd been just a tad faster during this page of words, taken more action, you'd have been fine. You shouldn't read so much, you fuzzdutty. This'll learn you!\nBam! Sock! Zowie!\nYou're not dead, but your career is. You get into the Velveeta line and prosper, so it's not a total loss.