A (compounded) word to the wise: you'll. Further words to the wise: know already. A (compounded) word to the foolish: don't. Further words to the foolish: eat the fish, unless you want some excuse for absence and choose not to share the paralysis of depression.
In the under-recorded history of bowls of couscous there was one bowl of couscous who cascaded through the sky whilst the others sat soaking up badly seasoned attempts at dressing down on earth; that bowl's name was Bugsy Ramone, the greatest bowl of couscous who ever lived. Other bowls of couscous struggled to comprehend simple algorithms (that's gonna help people learn to spell one of the few eight letter words without a vowel, oh yes, good fucking plan Mr. Algorithm-Namer - Boston, as per - good fucking plan. Don't you ever think about what's gonna help the children in music class when they've got to stop fucking about with the shakey things?) but Bugsy was there, rolling througha lgorithms and straight on to complex sentences with nouns, verbs and at a push a comma. Sound nothing? You're not familiar with the workings of the mind ofcouscous: algorithms are first nature to couscous, a gift from evolution for their fine work as a psychosomatic staging post during the protracted campaign against cork and other outsiders of the wood world - there are no winners but the war profiteers, namely couscous. Sentences, for couscous, ill-equipped to cope with anything life throws at it, bar dressing and algorithms, are as complex as vacuuming is to you - oh sure you can do it, but can you do it right?
Your average bowl of couscous is no more cognisant than you or I, the poor dear; Bugsy Ramone, bowl of couscous to end all bowls of couscous if he used his superior couscous knowledge to facilitate couscous armageddon, was special, was cognisant, had ideas, knew what he had to say, knew what he wanted to say and said it. Many's the night when passers by would pass by and see Bugsy spelling his ideas out on the floor with his own liegrains: "Wouldn't it be nice if stairs had some ancillary purpose when not in use?" "Could the continual environmental rape be lubricated slightly if people had to provide their own jars when buying instant coffee?" and "I wouldn't fucking use a metaphor unless someone held a gun to a loved one's head and said 'use a metaphor or I shoot your loved one'. Well, I might use a metaphor in another situation, but I'd try not to." Passers by would read, nod, pass by, and Bugsy would be left spilling. Writing sentences is a big deal for a bowl of couscous, and what's more Bugsy was slightly dyslexic; you should be impressed.
What hurt Bugsy the most wasn't the violent beatings dished out to him by a spurned lover - no nerves, no central nervous system, a focused ability totransc end physical pain in case he ever found a way to feel physical pain - but his inability to think for himself. Every idea that Bugsy Ramone, greatest bowl of couscous that ever lived, had he had to write down. Couscous, even Bugsy,can't think. Bugsy's ideas were there spelled out in front of him for the world to see, nothing could belong just to him, he had no choice; he could be what he was - we all can - but everyone else could see exactly what he was, and there was nothing he could do about it. Ain't nuffink you can do about it so why go frettin'? That was one of Bugsy's; I stole it. Couscous can't sue.