Inspiration strikes in the most unlikely of places. Tonight it struck while reviewing Constitutional Law in my BarBri book. As you can see, I was quite motivated:

And when the image came to me I shouted "Eureka!"

"Yes," cried Eureka from her room.

"Oh," I said, "nevermind."

Never shout Eureka when your maid's name is Eureka.

In any case, I had mentally stumbled upon my first-ever competely self-created recipe! This would really hit the spot in my time of need.

The recipe couldn't be easier. All you need is cyanide:

And cloves:

Mix together wistfully as your mind traces back through your brief but accomplished 25 years of living. Ah, there we are at our 6th birthday party. Look at the clown! Isn't he funny! And the cake...

What kind of cake is this, mother? The icing is lifeless and the cake is flat and dry. On first bite, yes, there's flavor, but as you carve further and further in its like carving into a corpse. All in all, a miserable pastry failure.

Where were we?

Oh yes, death. Once your cloves and cyanide are well mixed, place them into an oven that has been gas-ing for a while. Make sure that the air is pungent! One doesn't want to approach the next step prematurely.

At this point, then, insert your head evenly above the pie and breathe deeply:

Ahhh, sweet release. Look at all the dancing midgets! And the bacon people electing a new prime minister. Oh bacon people, you're so jolly in your... hey. What's this on my leg?

Damn you Lolita! Why must you restore my will to live!

Another recipe failure from your still-alive gourmet.