The clock strikes 7:47. I am in class until approximately 10:30 tonight. Time moves slow horribly slow, as I pretend to be engaged in a class I paid thousands of dollars to take. I don’t know what my problem is, but I can’t focus. I can never focus. My head is anywhere else. I can’t just sit still and absorb like a plant afraid of sunlight.
I have tasked myself with writing for five minutes. I type loudly, so I give the appearance of vigor to anyone sitting in front of me. Everyone else can see my backside, my real side which is less impressive.
I meant to do something creative but here we are. Just stream of consciousness. I guess it loosens up the brain like bowels after Folgers coffee. There is nothing like drip coffee followed by dripping stools. This sounds sarcastic but if this happens to you, you know the comfort that comes with extreme regularity.
I guess I don’t hate writing nonfiction. My work is no better or worse than your average nonfiction writer. My professor hated me though. She got mad at me for grandma dying. I guess that’s probably an improper conclusion. But the woman was awful. I got a C. Barely. I thought my piece on hotels was interesting, but I guess my comments on a lack of concierge weren’t titillating enough for her unemphatic being. It’s fine. I’m sure she still has natural bland blonde hair and lives with her ugly white vaguely dutch children. I’m not racist, she’s just the worst. I think her name was Karen. Or she looked like someone else named Karen, she probably gets that a lot.
Either way here I go I write to write, and breathe to breathe waiting for the time to stop.