My eyes literally feel like they are on fire. I’ve been reading provisions from the Wizard of Window Replacement for ten hours now. I’ve got at least another ten hours to go. I had to pull an all-nighter just to get through half, so that I can enter this contract with the wizard. He went to bed about six hours ago and is sure to wake up soon expecting an answer. The sun is starting to rise and I feel like my body is going to shut down.
I suppose you want to know what some of the most absurd provisions I’ve read are. Well, I’ll be happy to oblige as soon as my brain starts working again. I don’t think I’ve ever needed coffee more than this, and I was only two thirds through writing my thesis the week before it was due. I never thought I could be more tired than that, but here we are. Imagine going through this just for sliding windows replacement. I’m willing to do it to get my body back, but I think I’d rather just pay a professional to fix my windows.
Alright, so I’ve managed to think of a few more insane conditions of this contract. Provision three hundred and seventeen states that I must attend a minimum of five football games with the wizard, each time attempting to sneak onto the field to be on national television. Once we are caught, I will be required to pay both of our fines and take full credit for the idea. So that’s going to cost me upwards of fifty thousand dollars a year. Suddenly I’m starting to wonder if this will even be worth it. Maybe Lucian can just keep my real body, you know?
Provision seventy-seven states that I must refer anybody in need of aluminium window replacement around Melbourne to the Window Replacement Wizard. Provision two hundred and ninety-nine dictates that if I ever write a novel and get it published (either self-published or traditionally so), I must personally thank the Window Replacement Wizard in the book’s dedication, then provide him with a free, signed copy.
Wish me luck with the second half, my friends.