6.26.2009

Milkflesh, philosophically.

If my alarm had gone off a mere
five minutes sooner
I would've been spared
but no.

This time it was a hat trick of misfortune
striking three distinct nerves
in my vulnerable semi-conscious state.

One of the girls whose honor
I borrowed back in my
er, oat-feeling days
was suddenly my English teacher
at the junior high I attended
ten years ago.

Her form-fitting black dress
with gray pinstripes
cut at the thigh, of course
did her justice
though I still wanted to rip
that stupid stud out of her face.

She was passing back papers
and donned a sinister grin
as she casually dropped
mine on my desk, a big "C-"
scrawled across the top
in red lipstick.

It looked almost as horrid
as it did on her face.

"This can't be right, I worked
so hard to put it out there,"
I pissed, shoving the crumpled mess
of my former pride into my bookbag.

Her reply was something
characteristically sarcastic
which I won't attempt to reproduce
fifteen hours later
for fear of misquoting
one of the most spiteful women
known to man.

Suffice it to say that
it didn't go over so well with its recipient.

How dare she insult someone
who took such pride in his craft
such time to get it right?

I stormed out of the class
dodging numerous security guards
and vowing to leave that school forever.

I guess I overshot with that one.

The steady beep
of my alarm snapped me out of it.

All there was left to do was rub one out;
I didn't care that five against one
were unfair odds.

I washed up and went to work.

I wish I could say more than that.

No, maybe I don't.

These things have a shelf-life, too.

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