I don’t think they really want to.

There are some days that I desperately want someone to ask me a question.

Today would be a good day. Mac and Helena and I all have college essays looming  ahead of us with all the cheese and horror of a 1970’s movie about a spree killer.

I’m feeling a lot unfocused and I  think there’s a lot of empty going on in my head.  I’m a little woozy, too.  I think that’s because we three went to lunch off campus and wound up drinking a lot of coffee and bandying about possible essay topics. I saw a brochure from the coffee place that said, “We want to hear your thoughts.”

No.  No, they certainly do not.

For instance, I wonder why certain objects catch my eye and then I can’t uncatch it.  (today’s picture, undoctored and unstaged will show you what I mean.)

Mac is considering doing her essay on Sylvia Plath.

Really. Sylvia Plath.

If Mac wasn’t so goofily chipper, I would be worried about her going over to the Goth side.

I browsed through her book which was the unabridged diaries of Her Glumness, Ms. Plath.

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution is convinced that Plath is the diarist of our time.

I think that’s a broad overstatement to make about that particular broad.

There is also a publisher’s note from the good people at Random House explaining that the reader should take in consideration the colloquial meanings of her words,and by the way, the publisher is not responsible for said/read words, but that Plath used the word “queer” to denote an eccentric or suspicious person.

What kind of cretin do they think is reading the unabridged diaries of of Sylvia Plath?

The coupon just confuses me

I should have been more specific

So it’s Friday night and I’m watching reruns of reality TV.  I’m not really watching, I’m filtering.  I practice multi-tasking by having the TV on while I’m doing something that requires neurons.

Yes, it’s as nuts as it sounds.

Still, I have to practice otherwise I would be constantly screaming as I try and function while people bombard me with their inane questions.

I am at home on a Friday night, working on homework while screaming brides bellow on the screen behind me.

It sounds eerily like the school cafeteria.  Which I know all about because it’s the safest place for me to eat lunch.  I hate it, but I hate trying to eat french fries while total strangers quiz me about the nutritional content of my food, or the chemical formula required to mold the shiny tables, or (shudder) do I know what the legal amount of urine is allowed before they clean the ball pit.

You can see why I prefer to eat a squished sandwich and a banana that has turned black from it’s voyage from my house to school to locker to lunch.

There are worse things, I suppose.

When I was in elementary school, we had to write a lot of “what if?” type essays. One of them was a “What if you had a superpower.” Everyone wanted to fly or be invisible.

I said that it didn’t matter what superpower I had, that would feel special to have it.

I guess I should have been more specific.

What Ann Saw: Over three hundred writing prompts that all sounded like shrill little voices demanding my attention.  Thank you, college admissions essay!