The Ingrate with a Hammer

I am entitled to do anything I want to do for an evening. Well, not exactly anything I want. And I have earned it, I think, after clearing the paper that I have taken in June under one hell of a lecturer, who incidentally, also predicted correctly that we would reckon the passing results as entirely due to our own hard work - having absolutely nothing to do with him. Zero - not a thing! You may carry on calling us ingrates or spoilt brats or whatever - nothing will change. That is what we will tell one hell of a lecturer, if only to prove him right. Seriously, he was not the first person to come to my mind when I got hold of my result - the girl with the silver earrings was. I wanted to hear from her, so much so that I could feel my heart bursting. Sadly, she was not contactable. No thanks to me. I deserve a kick, I guess, for not asking her for her number. Well, there is no reason crying over spilled milk. Just find another cow for God's sake! And it was no wonder that I could come up with the idea of approaching the institute we study in for her contact number or rather, to give her my. You can't find a bigger hammer to kill an ant, if you know what I mean. Or maybe I could put up an advertisement (see, I have outdone myself again)...hmm.