there are those times

when cold bacon does not receive the proper amount of emails in any given few minutes. it is during those times that cold bacon sometimes takes his sweet leave from the email place, and goes to another place where he lies down on a large white pillow. after a period of about two hours, he arises, and goes to the bathroom, as fate would and does seem to every time now, have it. then, at this point, he is ready. a small angel begins playing clarinet in the key of c minor. and his return is afoot. he enters the room. more clarinets. he walks over to the email place. he plops down. in the big beige chair. and behold, as if someone had magically sent them, emails, dozens upon dozens of emails, waiting. just waiting. each and every one of them delightful. sent and received quite naturally. and not because of threats issued. or warnings. or any manner of tricks used in the establishment of fear and anxiety. and subsequent action. we are all on the white pillow now. we shall all soon forget everything. today is all of our birthday.