Sniffle #2


I felt like I was coming down with something. Like a cold I couldn’t shake off; like a never ending allergic reaction. I looked out the window hoping something could give me relief. I sniffled, breathing out of my mouth along with a moan of frustration. It had been six weeks and I felt like I was getting worse. Crumbled up tissues surrounded me like a barricade. The waste basket was already filled to the rim and I refused to throw my snot on the floor. I grabbed the tissue box and rocked it in my arms like a child. I took one out as the sandpaper tissue hugged my already pink tinted, scaly nose. I blew.

Looking out the window I stared at the many people scurrying down below. They looked like small ants in stiletto heels and glittery shirts.  Their hair bounced as the light wind from the late autumn night caught it. They linked arms with tall men with broad shoulders and shiny shoes. The radiant glow of the moon made shadows behind them as they walked past the tall cement buildings. I sniffled again, grabbing another tissue out of the box. I leaned my clammy face against the moist, cool window and sighed with relief. The city lights were so far from reach. I closed my eyes as I breathed slowly out of mouth.

The low melody of my Beethoven cd was on its last track and I wasn’t going to start it again. Standing from the warmth of the sill, I proceeded to my bedroom that reeked of antiseptic and eucalyptus. My tired, swollen eyes scanned the room. It felt so stale, so repeated, so boring. I looked down at my black pumps still sitting in its box not yet worn. I sniffled again. Maybe next weekend I would feel better enough to go dancing, or to at least debut my new shoes. I took off my clothes to change into fresh pajamas, even though I didn’t leave the house all day, and climbed into bed.

I opened my eyes to the blaring of honking horns and screeching breaks outside the open window. Rubbing my crusty burning eyes, I looked out at the sunny day. It was a Sunday and I thought Sunday was a day of rest. I slid out of bed and walked over to the open window and shut it, closing myself from the rest of the world. I slipped on my pink fuzzy slippers that looked like wet dog hair and dragged my stiff tired legs to the bathroom.

Looking at my reflection I noticed that any amount of color that had ever been in my face had been drained out. I spit in the sink as I sniffled. I ran my fingers through my dried out frizzy hair and shook my head with disgust. This sickness was not going to overpower me. I turned on the shower and waited for the steam to fill the small bathroom. The mirror began to fog up, fading my reflection in the mist. I leaned against the sink and put my head in my hands. Frustration filled my brain as the steam began to seep through my congested nose. I sniffled again.

The rest of Sniffle… It’s due tomorrow. 




My Thoughts on Math Class.

I was sitting in math class not paying attention like usual, and I wrote wrote this…  enjoy my form entertainment.

As I sit in my math class on this gloomy afternoon,I look at my teacher and wonder what made him want to become a teacher. Why would he want to waste his time teaching students like me who honestly don’t give a shit about math at all. When did he realize he love math?When I walked into his class for the first time, I sat in back of the class and actually paid attention. Now…. not so much. But once I started talking to him, I realized he was just as passionate about math as I was about writing. He ate, slept and lived numbers. I give him credit. Math will help you much more in life then writing will. I never thought one could be so passionate about solving problems and the numbers 0-10, but I guess I was wrong.

When you right brained you apparently are more artsy. People who are left brained however, are more logical and like math. I have always hated math, I guess that means I am right brained.It’s funny meeting people who hate english just as much I hate math. I look at them weird because how could someone hate writing. When you write, its like you are telling a story and when you write and   when you are reading,You are getting into someone elses brain. I think thats pretty awesome. When people read your work, its like you have friends you don’t know. I guess why some people who don’t have many friends ( like myself) write.

Reading literature is amazing to me. When I read a poem, a book, or a short story, I feel like I am living an event with a stranger. I am observing an event I wasn’t physically present to see. I feel like I am vicariously living through the characters. It changes how you think, it changes how you feel. Sometimes when I read a book I really like, I grow an attachment to the characters. I feel in some ways I know them personally.

Mr. Borek was a High School teacher before he became a professor. Before I left class today, I asked him why he doesn’t work in the  high school anymore. He told me because ” the college didn’t give me as many restrictions.I could teach the way I want to teach without hearing bullshit.” When teachers are passionate about their subject, like writers, they deliver better products.When a teacher is passionate, it makes the class enjoyable. It’s relateable. As much as I enjoy the way Mr. Borek teaches algebra, I have no interest in learning math. No matter how fun he tries to make it.

I wonder if he looks at us like idiots because he we are remedial math. I wonder if he pities because he knows we are only in his class because we HAVE to be there to graduate. At times, I pay attention only because I feel bad for him. This other girl Alyssa and I sit in the back of the classroom and either draw or write or look at the hott guy we sit by ( he’s a tad distracting). I know he  is helping us get through the class in the easiest way he possibly could and I am very appreciative of it. I feel bad because I can see the passion in his eyes and some of us don’t see it. We are either just lazy or couldn’t give two shits about the linear equation of a straight line.

He has is proof of why I will never become a teacher. When you teaching something that you love and no one cares, its defeating. I think I am going to pay attention in math now. I would never want to look at my students that I am trying so hard to get to understand the work, not paying any attention to me. I just think its rude.

Mr. Borek, I am sorry. :(