 |
|||||||||||||
 |
|
 |
|||||||||||
 |
 |
||||||||||||
i think the classroom breeds conformity. slowly, through its dull and neutral walls, with the same dimples identically placed in each brick, i feel the strands of uniquity snap off the guitar. the yawn emits itself stealthily from the back corner, contagiously seeping into the mouth one row ahead, making its way over to Miss. this place was designed for us to hate. when the back is turned even the most studious want to throw airplanes, chat, dream lazily out the window. i am staring out the window. looking at vivian hoover, her pants worn with excitement and experience, each thread with a modest scream of exuberance, the kind we each used to have. and she drowns herself with distractions, i think she knows. and i look at her, with her mousy, unwashed hair, and how people find her arrogant, misunderstood. hoover isn't misunderstood. hoover's not sticking it to the man. hoover works in a cupcake shop on thursday nights, gets her fingers sticky with icing, pinches pennies from the cash register to pay the bus fare home, and is the smartest person i'll ever meet. i watch her doodle cartoons in economics. but poor vivian is caught in a trap. she's everything i wanted to be, and she's afraid, that the kinship she sees in me, could ruin the distastrous beauty of watching tcm till 3 in the morning while bending pop cans into orgami. nah. vivan hooover knows. i can hear her now: "just do whatever you want to do, and don't look back. the dust in your face was meant for someone else." Post a comment in response: |
| © 2002-2008. Blurty Journal. All rights reserved. |