National Panic Wednesday March 9th, 2022 Actually Every Day

National Panic Wednesday March 9th, 2022 actually... every day Founded by Tom and Ruth Roy solely to acknowledge hardship of A. R. Harris and her husband M.S. Harris, who cope poorly (even courtesy medication) with anxiety attacks, especially when violated, probed, interrogated courtesy Highland Manor inquisition, which traumatizing event happened on aforementioned date included with poem title. J. G. and P. F. constitute management team under jurisdiction of Quoss (pronounced chhath tt) and Grade, who espouse principle laissez faire but whose exhibited heavy handedness pertaining to the married couple named in the third line of this poem. Either one or the other gals who attend these premises here at the Schwenksville location (I won't mention the state as penile solitude) alluded to a peculiarly nasty odor emanating from unit B44, our man/woman cave. We received a twenty four hour deadline to get into shipshape the disarray messiness even Pigpen would find abominable, yet upon receiving both oral and written admonition, me and the missus buckled down and kickstarted frenzied whirlwind one bedroom apartment cleaning spree zoned out like zombies of Sugar Hill when the clock struck bewitching hour, more specifically that alluded time synonymous with midnight. No matter we felt dead tired whereat neither option to acquire additional time, nor desist existed, and yet nearly impossible mission to continue, but appealing to temptation of sandman out of the question. Deep sleep for the weary appeared oh so heavenly, on par with plate of powder milk biscuits, our mandate (analogous to pilgrims adults and children - forced to fight in crusades) forbid cessation, thus to plod and plow onward despite overwhelming urge to plotz, (not the slang definition) found yours truly blissfully in dreamland when me noggin hit the pillow, Not for a minute could yours truly sit down and take a breather, despite severe lower (rightside) back pain. Said dull throbbing ache diagnosed as tight muscles by Doctor (physical therapist) John R. Mishock, he would not countenance (approve, comply, honor...) I popped one Ibuprofen.