Real life is calculus.
Calculus makes me want to light a cigarette in the middle of class, and say, "Fuck it. I'll just be a writer."
I don't actually smoke, but I think it makes a statement. Like when I fantasize of casually smoking a cigarette halfway through the SAT and saying to the classroom, "I've already got a publishing deal, and I don't give a shit about cancelling all of your test scores." I'm not that mean actually; that's why I fantasize. I am so polite that I will finish the SAT with a dull pencil, save standing up and loudly sharpening it.
But calculus is nearing my breaking point.
I'm already sassy enough to take daily naps, and loudly ask for the time every four minutes. When class will be over in twenty minutes, I begin a countdown. Right now I am blogging, watching the first season of Modern Family, and facebook chatting--not doing my calculus homework due tomorrow.
How beatnik of me!
This is fantasy me.
I enter the calculus classroom like a cowboy, ruthless without a care in the world. I pull the gum out of my mouth and stick the slimy wad under my desk, with everyone watching. The teacher begins the lesson, while I stretch my legs over my desk, pull my cowboy hat down over my face, and take a mid-morning nap. As the teacher lectures about derivatives, asymptotes, and limits my brain magically absorbs it all--like one of those retarded sevants. When the teacher lifts my cowboy hat to ask me the answer to a calculus question, I politely take my hat back and answer, "the limit does not exist." The teacher gasps and mutters, "damn geniuses." The classroom stares in awe. I have a solid poker face; I can't even grin after my victory. Deciding it's time for lunch, I reach under my desk and pull out a sizzling steak. You guessed it--right off the grill. For the rest of class I chomp unabashedly on my Texas beef.
This is real me.
Staring at my homework and getting a panicky feeling--which means clutching my chest, hyperventilating, and pacing my room.
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