Eleven fifteen on Sunday night, math homework piled high on my desk and glaring.

Little numbers turned to eyes, the subject that I so despise, it hates me and I don’t fucking care. Why should I wear the mark of a good student when failing my future is so tempting?

I have learned my lesson about obsession-let it float away, babes, all your cares and worries on the wind (don’t you wish that it would rain?) throat parched and you are dehydrated from lack of love-all they want is A’s A’s A’s, and you better keep them coming. Grades more important than your health (98 and dropping but this is a mark no one will care for-weight doesn’t factor in with grade point average).

Meet little miss America (her eyes sunken and red from lack of nutrients and staring at books for hours on end in an attempt to memorize the periodic table) and don’t you think she’s desirable? No wonder everyone wants us (dead or alive).