Your writer of pulp has achieved what might be called an F-This Moment. It's a fairly regular, often repeating moment that twirls around and can often result in an ennui that leads a man to find solace in the company of his Compost Piles. And the sad fact is that sometimes Compost Piles just need to be left alone. You can only stick your finger in them so often to check their temperature otherwise it becomes an obsessive behavior that doesn't look good on your permanent record.
The more useful direction when confronted by an F-This Moment is to consider the
possibilities of using the moment as an opportunity to so thoroughly
explore pointlessness that you come away with a construct so novel in it's
solution that even the angels toss a couple of A pluses in your direction. And
while on the subject of Compost Piles during the seasonal adjustment and the
general preparation for Giving there is such an unholy thing as a Compost
Pile Thermometer. It's amazing what evil people will devise to spoil the fun of