How do I decide what the truths are?
I jumped down the stairs and scared a lady on her rear. I offered a hand to help her up; the bitch just groaned and rolled her eyes back in her head.
-The excitement of my 9:30 Diet Coke break is to blame.
I worked up the courage to talk to the red headed girl across the room this morning. I had wanted to for a while. “Do we have a test today?” I said.
-Good news: we don’t have a test today.
There is a different red headed girl I want. But I can’t think about her face. Every time I picture her face, the horrible fat-assed glasses girl with horsy facial features shows up instead. Damn that horse girl, and her pile of pink, used handkerchiefs.
-I don’t even try to picture my red head girl anymore. Because: Lady McClydesdale of the Fatbottoms has conquered the Britons.
Someone I don’t understand is the immigrant woman in front of me. Is she Mexican? Is she Russian? I’m never sure if her accent is French or Asian. Maybe she is Argentinean; She isn’t very dark skinned. Maybe she is Portuguese.
-Maybe she’s from Andorra. Maybe I will ask her.
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