Writing this Piece on a Glass Table with Books Surrounding

I must do my work, but I can’t, for I am surrounded by summer reads. I have Tolkien, Murakami, Bradbury, Carroll, White, etcetera, etcetera. For the past few minutes, I have been writing a story. Not going to help me academically. Spiritually, indeed, but it will not satisfy the expectations dragooned by the amount of cash my parents surrender to the University. No. So I must begin my work, lest I end up desperately clawing my way out of 3s and 4s and 5s. It’s only the second semester of my freshman year, and I have yet to experience a 2, whose presence I gladly derailed in the first and whose persecution I morosely expect in the second.

I suddenly look at my feet, and turn my attention to the carpet. Now I wish the carpet would consume me, just to end this misery of working for something that gives me nil. If it does not give you happiness, it gives you nil.

Off to work.

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