Education
I sat alone on my bed with my laptop cradled on my knees, reading through the last of my friends page while cursing the fates that had earlier stolen every last scrap of creativity from my brain, which was, as always, far too willing to roll over and take it. Then I looked over to see a rather scruffy young girl perched ever so obnoxiously at the other end of my bed, filing her chipped blue nails, flicking her disinterested eyes ever so insolently at me.
My muse had never run away from me--she was just a sullen, angst-ridden delinquent. Realizing this, I died a little inside.
***
Dear BFF (Best Friend Forever),
Today, I met the dreamiest hunk-o'-man. Our eyes locked as we walked down Main Street, and I knew it was kismet. We drew closer and closer together as though a great magnetic Cupidian force were pulling through our eyeballs. Just before our noses collided, he cocked his head towards the nearby Barnes & Noble.
He led me to a secluded bookcase and pointed out all the books he loved to read. It just made me feel all hot and fluttery inside that he knew how to read at all.
He wanted to tell me about his thoughts on Dante. Of course, I put a stop to that immediatamente. Instead, I made him tell me about how he learned to read in the first place. He thought it was a bit odd, but the manic gleam of my dilated pupils convinced him to proceed. I nearly took him in a womanly fashion when he told me that he had mastered the skill by the age of six.
In that moment, I belonged to him. Or so I thought.
As we walked a meandering path through the bookstore, he insisted on discussing random and meaningless topics such as current and historical events in various world countries and a whole bunch of other disparate ideas that I'll file under the trash repository term of Science.
It was bad enough to find out that this heathenish traitor to the mother tongue spoke another language, but to then realize that he has the attention span of a drunken nematode? Too much, BFF. Too much. O BFF, how will I ever stand to be with a man who jumps readily from subject to subject, each time contributing something witty and intelligent to the so called conversation?
A real man knows how to be focused. He sticks to one idea, like the irresistibly sexy mechanics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, and he sticks to it persistently. Kind of like those really cute blood-sucking leeches. Now they have what I call stamina.
It's all a moot point anyway. I parted ways with him for good in front of Dickens when he added LYING to his growing list of vices, telling me he was a high school graduate. As if they let the likes of him out of the kindergarten playground anymore.
My muse had never run away from me--she was just a sullen, angst-ridden delinquent. Realizing this, I died a little inside.
***
Dear BFF (Best Friend Forever),
Today, I met the dreamiest hunk-o'-man. Our eyes locked as we walked down Main Street, and I knew it was kismet. We drew closer and closer together as though a great magnetic Cupidian force were pulling through our eyeballs. Just before our noses collided, he cocked his head towards the nearby Barnes & Noble.
He led me to a secluded bookcase and pointed out all the books he loved to read. It just made me feel all hot and fluttery inside that he knew how to read at all.
He wanted to tell me about his thoughts on Dante. Of course, I put a stop to that immediatamente. Instead, I made him tell me about how he learned to read in the first place. He thought it was a bit odd, but the manic gleam of my dilated pupils convinced him to proceed. I nearly took him in a womanly fashion when he told me that he had mastered the skill by the age of six.
In that moment, I belonged to him. Or so I thought.
As we walked a meandering path through the bookstore, he insisted on discussing random and meaningless topics such as current and historical events in various world countries and a whole bunch of other disparate ideas that I'll file under the trash repository term of Science.
It was bad enough to find out that this heathenish traitor to the mother tongue spoke another language, but to then realize that he has the attention span of a drunken nematode? Too much, BFF. Too much. O BFF, how will I ever stand to be with a man who jumps readily from subject to subject, each time contributing something witty and intelligent to the so called conversation?
A real man knows how to be focused. He sticks to one idea, like the irresistibly sexy mechanics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, and he sticks to it persistently. Kind of like those really cute blood-sucking leeches. Now they have what I call stamina.
It's all a moot point anyway. I parted ways with him for good in front of Dickens when he added LYING to his growing list of vices, telling me he was a high school graduate. As if they let the likes of him out of the kindergarten playground anymore.