I figure we have three days till the bend of our world. That means three entire days of snot ragging, rebound wasting, drunkard mating, free-for-all antics! Sure, the games we've played are coming back to haunt us like old perverted wheelchair men. But stay strong; After your three days as the masked bachelor or bachelorette are through, you'll be thanking me. Because seventy-two hours from now, never again will you hear the sweet sound of Pachelbel Cannon in D whistling in your ears when your "love" so happens to pass by your strategically staked out 'X' or 'Y' chromosome battle grounds. Never again will you receive faint flirtatious flickers of roses and posies flaming before your eyes. You have merely a trinity of suns and moons to ever hear your crunch and crunch footsteps over those smelly rosemary leaves, when you glide by to merry old what's their face whose just going to last till that irritating zebra rainbow bubblegum loses its flavor. (And unless you invest into juicy fruit, they aren't going the distance). Trust me my friend, my old buddy o pal. When these three days are through, we'll both remember what it means when playing gain and loss with a few torque driven teenagers was routine. Like our refilling mountain SUVs' for the long freeway commute to cubical penguin hell. Yes m8, we'll live these three more days just as pointless as we ever could. I'll see you a trio later when we come back to our senses. As the normal mature adults we should be. Hey, maybe even then, we'll be a REAL couple.