Began writing in class:
Brain-worn and glassy-eyed. Didn’t sleep much last night, and when I dozed, it was a restless thing, filled with dreams of school and jobs and wicked stepmothers.
Eight o’clock, at school, reading chapters from an art book I couldn’t give a shit about, waiting for the teacher to arrive.
“You’re here early,” he says.
“Did you have a good weekend?”
“I did,” I say. I didn’t, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the moving, the cleaning, the constant sneezing, or the lack of sleep. Whining’s only fine when you make it funny. Otherwise, it just sounds like this.
I drop my supplies by my work table and go to a computer. I turn it on and realize there’s nothing that I want to see. Too early to check for any new comments, but I do it anyway.
My princess brought home some sort of evil kid germs, so I’ve been fighting a cold since Sunday. My nose stops up just a little before class, but it’s not enough to keep the smell of the fat goth girl a couple tables down from penetrating my sinuses.
Class passes uneventfully, and eventually ends.
The next teacher comes in. I stay at my work table. I have two classes in a row, both in the same classroom, from nine to five, straight through.
She looks awful. Sick. Great.
She spends twenty minutes telling us all about how sick she is, how contagious she is, and how terrible she feels. She tells us that class will be let out early today. Then she begins making her rounds, “helping” us, getting all up in everyone’s face. Thank goodness I don’t ever need any help in this class.
But then there she is, leaning over my shoulder, breathing right in my face. I smell the stink of her sick-breath, and I want to punch her in the neck. Instead, I lean away from her and hold my breath until she leaves, shaking my head to indicate that I don’t need any help.
She doesn't let class out early.
I spend the evening eating vitamin C and thinking about how art classes are shit-stupid awful.