It is your thirteenth birthday, and as with all twelve preceding it, you cannot get it together. The maladous malaise presently hovering over you is only the latest in a series of mishaps, misfortunes, and misconducts that have dogged you your whole life — a plot engendered not by malice, but by malfortune. A limb tourniqueted off and left to rot.

"The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways. The point, however, is to change it."- Karl Marx.

You are certain that Karl Marx said that. In German, perhaps, but that is certainly the standard English translation. His authorship is, at least, unquestioned, is your point.

You have a feeling it's going to be a long day.
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