Dull Blouse

Jim Davis said, "If people were meant to pop out of bed, we'd all sleep in toasters." I can assure you I don't spend my nights in a tiny, scorching slot, but that day I reached the floor milliseconds after awaking. Checked the calendar to make sure -- yep, it was the day "you better ask Josie out, dumbass." The jitters jangled in my jugular -- it just gave me more energy. Still, I drank a few cups of joe. Off into academia!

The periods dashed by. Sex Ed turned into Forensics, which became Web Design (What's up, Fictional Account stars?), then History, then -- no . . . a forty-two minute episode of the worst series of anything . . . ever. English class with Miss High Standing Twig. It will go quickly today, yes it will, I told myself.

"Hi, guys." The greeting pierced my ears, erasing what I was thinking about that day -- Josie's melodious "Hey Nick."

As you can guess, it continued, and I sat in terror like a Saw victim, thinking of complex escape routes. Hmmm -- time to for some lucid dreaming! There's Dave, relaxing in a lawn chair, caressing his muscles, ea --

"Okay, you can get into groups." The twig had spoken. Aw, my reverie just started!

"[Screech]" my desk said to her, angrily. Okay, it just said that because I dragged it backwards without lifting it. Fine, my desk doesn't have emotions. Fine, you know what, you win -- since I'm the human, I'll take credit for the noise.

I couldn't escape into my thoughts -- they were blocked by a disturbing voice, Nathaniel Hawthorne (Thoughtworld™ refers to him as Mr. Gothporn), and my counterparts' contributions. Anthony C was speaking.

"The a stands for alcoholic, Miss Twig," Anthony offered.

"Well . . . um . . . yes, Katie?"

"I think it's assumption . . . ?"

"Um . . . well . . . maybe . . . uh . . . um . . . anyone have a better answer?"

Ouch -- an ear-raping series of interjections, followed by garbage with a capital g.

"Adultery," I let out, firmly!

"Yeah -- that's what Hawthorne was going for."

The clock was being a vengeful bitch to me that day -- we still had thirty minutes to go. I swear it'd been a good seven hours I was sitting there, effectively defenseless against repeated audio grenades.

"Oh, if you could just take out that sheet from yesterday . . . yeah, the one with the town opinions on it." She rose and scanned our desks. "I mean, this is an honors class. I guess I don't have to check. GODDAMN MY REGULAR CLASS THEY'RE JUST A BUNCH OF RETARDED HOODLUMS MY HUSBAND HATES ME BOOKS DON'T MENTALLY ABUSE ME EXCEPT SOME PHILOSOPHY WORKS SUPERIORITY INSECURITY PURITY ETCETERA . . . sorry, just . . . continue discussing sym -- symbolism . . . I don't feel so good."

"Miss Twig, should we get a nurse?" said Marina C.

"No! Just continue dis -- here, I have a review guide for you all. Just do it . . . I have to relax."

Obviously no one did it. We stared at the paper and continued processing and validating what had happened, occasionally writing down an unrelated quotation from the book . . . looking busy or else. I was releasing laughter from all sides, excluding oral, for minutes after the confessional outburst. It was too good.

The wonderful eighth period came, breezed by, and wait, it's time, oh no, I can't compose myself -- yes, the neurological rambling began. I saw my brunette anti-princess around the bends of Chestnut Street, and approached her, shaking erratically.

"Hi Josie, what's up?"

"Oh, Nick, hey, just walking home from school."

"Sweet. Well, what are you doing?"

"Huh?"

Then I exploded all previously-contained emotion in her face. Obviously what I asked her was ridiculous, so I thought, "Ha, I'm real smooth." One mental "ha" brought my mind to the most memorable moment of the day . . .

"Hello? Nick, what are you laughing at?"

"Josie, you had to be . . ." I almost finished the sentence, at least. I wasn't about to stop laughing anytime soon, though. "Jo . . ." I could only get her nickname out.

Eventually, she said to IM her about what I was dying over; she had to get home and do math homework, blah blah, she has no idea what her teacher's talking about, blah blah. I was happy she left -- I looked foolish, and she didn't need to see that selfish display. I was about to curse Miss Twig, but then, you guessed it, I continued my streak.

Nothing was unfunny that afternoon. It wasn't just what Twig said -- it was the predictable growing awareness that killed me. I estimated the rate at which people found out about her outburst -- I settled on one person per twenty seconds, for the first afternoon anyway.

As usual, readers, you've been kind. You didn't talk over my narrative -- "Dave, I can't be with you, sorry" -- or . . . hold on. Jen, how the hell did you . . . you don't know my password! Jen, don't leave Dave! Another story is in the works! Have a fantastic day and watch television and buy stuff 'cause of the advertisements and eat apple pie, okay? Bye.