Eighty six is a horrible number, it crumbles the tongue, the heartbreaking difference between success and medicore hell.

I despise six as well. Six resembles sixth period, my least favorite class. An hour spent staring across the room, smelling the sweet aroma of pot, tobacco, and hand sanatizer. I hate it, though not nearly as much as the girl who fainted to-day. The images of metallic popularity, held hands, gentle gestures, and eighty sixes in red rattle in my head, telling me to-day was a crap cake. And that tomorrow will be the same.


Oh, well. Nothing happened extraordinarily extraordinary to-day, with the exception of optimism and unlikely fantasies–but I managed to shove my troubles into the stocking and I'm sure that most of it will come out in the wash. Tomorrow is the last day, after all.

I won't see him for two weeks, three if he catches pneumonia.