It's Too Cold to Eat Pho

It's too cold to eat pho, by yourself, on a Monday, in winter, when you don't feel like breaking out the character map to place the correct accented 'o', right after you got back your paper bleeding with red pen marks, that you wrote on the children of Darfur, that was inspired by your girlfriend, who you just found out has a malignant tumor the size of a golf ball in the left frontal lobe of her brain, before she told you that she has only six months to live and that she will be leaving you, to spend the rest of her time in hopes of chasing after her true love, which isn't you, but your best friend whom you were already invested with in a trip to Tripoli, which you were to see your former roommate, that you smoked weed with every Thursday night after chemistry, who was shot in the face with a pistol held by a remorseful policeman, commanded by a totalitarian dictator hanging on to a thread of a silk curtain, connected to the country he once knew. It's way too cold for pho.