August 3rd, 2005

Hopefully this torture won't last much longer.

I can’t do this anymore. I can't sit through another one of these English classes and act like I'm not constantly considering ripping my hair from my scalp and screaming inside my skull. I am in an English class with a senile man and half a room full of Asians that can't speak the language, let alone write at a level I want to be going to. I might as well be a seventh grader in a kindergarten class.

I finally spoke to someone today. It was kind of an accident; a topic of conversation to fill up empty silence in the elevator. Turns out I was preaching to the man in charge of the oldy's job. I felt kind of bad at first, invading on someone else's life, but I wasn't about to let anyone butcher 44 hours of my own. I shouldn't have to seek out weed during Wednesday lunch hour. I shouldn't have to pop the last Vicodin I had been saving just to salvage a prayer of making it through another class alive. I shouldn't have to worry that I'll have nothing to doodle or nothing to write. And I shouldn't have to worry about how I'm gonna do it next week after this one's finally over. Being in his class is like being a vegetarian chains to a chair with your eyes glued open while a video of animal slaughter runs for hours on maximum volume two inches from your face.

It's weird. Somehow Perkins knows about me. My name is the only one he ever remembers, he always calls on me first to read my essays, and marks an A with a comment of total thanks and approval on the ones he hands back. I have not written a single thing for the class; just pulled previously written works from my livejournal archive that fit the topic assigned. The only thing I ever wrote was a response to Rashomon, a movie I had already spent three weeks deciphering 3 years ago in Creative Writing with Justin Chapman. The works I have submitted to him as homework have been mediocre pieces that have astonished the bastard right out of his fucking loafers. And I wonder how. I wonder how a man as unnoticed by his fellow faculty and as unappreciated by his students as Perkins could know about me. It all feels too easy. I slept through his first class and suddenly I'd been handed a golden ticket that promised me A's all the way through, if I could just make it there without shooting myself.