Until the next contest begins, my life will be without purpose, drifting in a gray nebula of despair. I will willingly subject my digestive tract to instant burritos. I will watch episodes of Lockdown and Keeping Up with the Kardashians in their entirety. I will see small, cute dogs on the street and be indifferent to their cuteness. I will tip waitresses 14.5% instead of my customary 15% just to mess with them. I will wander in the outer darkness, a cursed man neither in this world nor of it, and all who look upon my countenance shall reel in terror from the pure, bleak absence of meaning therein exposed.
No pressure, Klaus.
No pressure, Klaus.
