Sometimes, if you recall, when I'm not busy running the vending machine downstairs dry of delicious M&Ms or painting my nails odd colors or being so angry that the lacquer dries on contact (this is very handy ladies and or gents), I like to dabble in writing.
But since school, which--ironically--requires writing, I've wasted most of that genius (and it is genius) on writing papers...papers...a few more papers...and a speech or two. I'm not sure why I write out my speeches since my memory is like a fine woven basket and I hate index cards.
In any case, 90% of my writing power goes to that then about 9% comes to blog entries, which is why occasionally I write like I'm not even trying anymore. It's coz I'm not. The anger comes pretty easily but the wordsy part, damnit, the words!
So I devote that other 1% to writing fiction for joy and that's too bad--not the 1% part, the writing. This one percent takes forever to trickle from my brain to my fingers to my keyboard and once it's gone I kinda forget about it. So I was looking through my files of things to finish and I remembered the last thing I was working on. I read it and wondered who would play such a cruel joke on me, then remembered I had started it about a few weeks ago on a rainy day.
It was a dreary day out, at least dreary in nature. The dark storm clouds were peeling back slowly to reveal the early morning sun, moving so quickly against the static blue sky I thought I might throw up if I looked any longer. The morning rain had made a swampland of the of the campus grounds, already stripped bare and dry by winter, it now dissolved into mush beneath my shoes. Even the concrete seemed wobbly as I crossed the platform to the great white marble steps of the library. I tried to nudge off some of the excess mud on the edge of the steps but then I’d walk into someone else’s muddy footprints. Wonderful.
It was everywhere. I wiped my feet off on the mat; more mud stained my white Polo tennis shoes. It was a disgrace. The working students at the checkout counter looked at me almost apologetically but in truth, I didn’t mind. I wanted my notes more than anything, then maybe a nap later.
I was so mad at myself for missing Calculus. It wasn’t even a good reason, I was more or less playing hooky. And I felt like a major dick—as big a dick as a five-foot girl could feel anyway. Fortunately I’d made one friend in that class, and I’d picked a good one. Good enough to answer my pleading, hokey emails promptly and agreeing to meet me so early, on such a grey day.
Man, that narrator IS a dick. A dick with nice shoes but a phallus nonetheless. Wait, this shit is in first person--auugh I remember that day! WHY WOULD I WRITE ABOUT THAT?
*headlap*
...Oh well I better finish it. Oh and I'm not five-feet. I'm five-foot one. Literary embellishment.
