finals

Last Thursday sophomores were instructed to write an essay in two hours to simulate the state writing exam that'll be held later this month. The topic was shown to us the day before, their reasoning being we should be allowed to mull over possible themes and such given that the essay was to be worth fifteen percent of our grade. I wasn't nervous, which could be duly noted in the way that I didn't start puzzling together a thesis until twenty minutes before the exam was supposed to take place. I had written an essay in a similar fashion last year, and had already written several essays over the course of the school year thus far.

I love to write. I could weave a tapestry with words so enthralling that you would forget your own name. But. BUT. ESSAYS. There does not exist a word that could accurately portray my loathsome feelings towards essays.

Because last Thursday, when I slipped into my seat and propped my backpack up alongside my desk and readied my mechanical pencil, I could not, would not write the essay. I spent an hour and a half trying, and not even with an outline could I write the essay.

So. Having not completed the essay, I'm probably failing English.

AND THEN. In English today, Mrs. Keller announces that on the first semester final this Friday, not only will there be one hundred questions, but there will be an essay!

MOTHERFUCKER.

But anyway. Yesterday after school, Pat and I ate soup and drank hot chocolate at Panera, and afterwards he dropped me off at piano lessons. Today, we watched "The Daily Show" together, and after he left for work I watched television.

On Monday the T-shirt I ordered from Nick arrived. I was given Resa's and Pat's to deliver.

On Sunday, I went to Jamba Juice with my mom after Pat left for work.

Anything before Saturday is like trail mix, fragments of assorted memories.

Sometime last week I went out to coffee with my mom, and on the drive home I gazed out the window as I often do. I saw a billboard for the new Coca-Cola fridge pack. I had seen the billboard a few times before, but when I saw it then, I decided I hated it. God forbid someone have to ease themselves from their cushy recliner and struggle trying to open a box made of flimsy cardboard in their quest for a can of pop. I am offended by that product.

I've been listening to the same ten songs on repeat for the past two hours and, according to four modes of time-telling (my computer, my watch, the oven, and the microwave), it's 8:30 p.m. All signs point to bedtime.

I am, however, looking forward to Friday. I have three two-hour classes that day because of finals -- Mr. Browne said attending band that day wasn't necessary provided obligations (i.e., money owed to the school) were paid off and what-have-you, so I'm going to sleep an extra two hours and arrive at school around 9:30 a.m. for my health final, which should take somewhere within the vicinity of forty minutes. Then English. The ungodly final I want to escape faster than a French border patrolman with a coupon for cigarettes and good running shoes. Luckily, since it's the last period of the day, I can stay an additional half hour or so after school to tie up loose ends if need be.

Goodnight.