Untitled (Due to a blocking of wrods to the brain)

I am in school. Obviously, the people in charge do not realize how hard it is to focus on what a+b squared equals when, just moments before, I was happily attacking someone with a sharp knife. So, pretty much, when the teacher asked me what the answer to problem eleven was, and I miraculously answered correctly with "3", I was not talking about what "a" stood for. I meant how many people my wonderful antagonist had killed "today".

Whenever I can, due to this, I am actually writing - not just living in my head.

It's entertaining. The reactions I get, I mean. I guess the writing is, too, but that's another story. A few minutes left in class - left to boredom - and I whip out my handy-dandy notebook and begin writing away. The girl in front of me turns around.

"Whatcha writing?"

"Nothing."

"Oh. So schoolwork?"

"Nope." Really? Why would I be passionately bent over my schoolwork, making faces at the non-dialogue happening? "I just like to write.

Then comes a whole conversation about me writing, how someone else loved my poem's I was forced into reading out loud to the class last year, and how I plan on finding someway to write for a living.

The best part? I have two people who claim they will read a book I write. And I know for sure BSmith will.

Which is good. Except my ego needed to be deflated.

So I tried to get my father to read something I wrote.

It worked.

Now, back to writing something that does not happen in this reality.