Tuesday, November 25, 2003

Angle bisector of a triangle.

I sit here gnawing on my pencil like a hampster. The large lights in my room shower me with bright headaches. My computer screen glares at me, a monochrome monster, its mouth wide open and agapely aschew.

My pencil's metal eraser tip begins to get worn out as I sit with my Geometry book wide open. I slowly look over it, viewing what appears to me to be a triangle with a whole bunch of lines stapled all about it, and a circle going around in its inside.

Concurrency of Angle Bisectors of a Triangle

It reads to the right of the picture.

The angle bisectors of a triangle intersect at a point that is equidistant from the sides of the triangle

I read this yet the words fall from my brain like rotting meat that's been rotten too damn long, and deserves to be thrown in a garbage can and toted off to a garbage dumb whereto it can rot in peace.

I glare at my pencil for a while. Its eraser is now crooked,its yellow coating now coming off.

I stare at my paper and there is a 19 and a period and nothing after it.

In my mind my head is brimming. My hands are tight and feel like they want to do something, anything, to eat away the pressure they feel. My legs feel like two numb pistons powering a snow-covered nothing. My shoes cling to me like slush, their back sides bent inward due to my carelessness in wearing and taking them off.

My hair is in my line of vision, like a roadblock that reminds me that I am alive and life is a reality. My hands are veiny and colorlessly red, the faint colors in them bouncing around as my eyes recieve light and message what I see to me by use of my brain.

And still I stare at my Geometry, my hands still feeling like they need to do something, anything to release their pressure. And my vision is fuzzy, an intoxicating mix of caffeine, sleepiness, and something else that I can't figure out.

My other homework assignments daunt around in my head like blithering wrecks. Little pieces of paper written in my mind that remind me that I have other things to do, like write notes on two chapters in history, each chapter containing three sections each, and taking about an hour and a half to write notes for each.

A piece of paper scampered on my desk doe-eyes me with its whiteness and black blotches of words, the title of it, "The War on Drinks," glaring causticly at me, an imperitative little beckon of the paper I have due in english tomorrow that I still need to write.

My latin laughs at me from my backpack, speaking something I'll never understand and never use for anything other than what I will. Its words dance around my head in circumvention of nothing, happily yawping about their endless signals.

On my desk stands out another paper which has my horrid writing scrambled on it. The job application looks at me, telling me I'm a lazy bigot and I need to get my self working. That I need to get a job.

This text box feels empty as I type in it, the words straining out of me like hushed chains being whispered for nothing.

Bob Dylan blares in his grumble, talking about when you go your way and I go mine.

I need to work, the clock in my corner says as it tick tocks down the day.

I need to work.

But I can't concentrate. I just want today to end, and for it to be tomorrow, and tomorrow's tomorrow, and tomorrow's tomorrow's tomorrow.

I see my grades are slipping through my head like a spike on rough chalkboard. I see skin that's grafting grafting grafting onto the dead bones that are my grades, and I see it thinning out day by day, dead skin cells falling like scales rough and gaunt.

The world is on wings around me, fallen angel with no reason. The sun goes down and turns to a moon. the snow falls down and cools the ground.

And it's time to work.

Time to work.

Time to work.

Time to work.
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