Hallelujah

I am a student sitting in the class of my least favorite subject. Subsequently, this is the longest class in my schedule. The professor is reviewing the syllabus but I can’t be bothered to try to understand what he’s trying to say. He has an accent and I have no paper in front of me to read along with. This room has two doors, about 20 yards of chalkboard and no windows. There’s a yellowish glow reflected on everything. It mixes with the greens and blacks of the boards. I feel like I’m in an underground holding center cleverly placed underneath a pond to disguise it’s presence. I look around the room and I am the only blonde with a lion on her chest.

Actually, I am the only blonde.

I’m not a natural blonde but who’s natural anyways anymore. I can’t help but wonder if me being the only contrast against the drab browns and blacks is a metaphor for life and I wonder if I’m the only person who has a spark or a flare or even passion.

I am the only person writing. I continually pause in case my accented and short professor notices and says something. Although I doubt it would matter. This is college after all and we are old enough to make our own choices, which is ironic because no matter what the age, no one ever makes their own choices. I wonder if my note taking would be seen as a distraction and then I wonder if my hair is a distraction and then of course, I wonder if I am distraction.

I probably am.

The longer I sit in this room, the longer I feel like these yellow walls are sucking me away. I really hate it when teachers don’t have a syllabus to give me. Without it I feel like I’m just here, wasting my time and if I wanted to be wasting my time I could think of about a hundred other places I’d rather be. I wonder if I’ll ever make it to a 4 year. Every time I’m at school and not paying attention to what accented short people are saying I fall into reverie, mostly about college. I have two folders for school. One says T-TH in pink and one says MW in yellow. I’m more than slightly upset that I have to add a yellow f to the yellow MW which makes me more eager to swim away from the math pond. I spent hours creating the perfect schedule, only to have it ruined by a computer glitch.

Accented short man has penmanship that is remarkably similar to my mother’s. My leg is hurting again. I wonder what I would be like with only one leg. I wonder how badly it would hurt to chop it off. Maybe I’ll pull a grandpa and take a chainsaw to it. But that’s not fair. Grandpa didn’t mean to kill himself. It’s all a big accident. We’ll be starting chapter one in ten minutes. I can never decide if the beginning … is just another ending.