It’s 11:37 and I spent the last 4 hours watching That 70s Show. Topher Grace could have waited a day.

I have a math test tomorrow and 3 french assignments I haven’t turned in.

This story could probably wait a day. But if I can’t write my paper on The Tempest, I might as well write a paper on why I can’t write papers.

The way I’m spacing this might make it look like a poem, but I don’t think it is. Poems are either beautiful or stupid. I guess sometimes they’re both, but this is neither.

I can’t write similes or metaphors, and I can’t use my words to make someone cry. I’m not going to be used as in example in a high school lit class. Unless it’s an example of what not to do.

It’s 11:41 now and I used to be headed somewhere. I don’t know where there is to go anymore. There are so many numbers and letters that are used to calculate our futures, and I understand them all too well. Now if only I could understand the numbers and letters used in math class.

It’s 11:47 now and I have been writing for 10 minutes. If writing about shakespeare came this easily to me, I would be sleeping.