(no subject)

Jim was running a marathon but as he approached the finish line it kept receding away from him. He realized that he would never finish the race. As he was running he thought this might be a metaphor for his life but he rejected that shit. He was just running a stupid fucking marathon where these sadistic jerks kept moving the fucking finish line. And besides, he thought, he hated the whole idea of metaphors. All that poetic crap. One time Mrs. Wilcox, his seventh grade English teacher, made him memorize some stupid poem by Emily Dickinson, the one that starts my heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky. What a bunch of crap. Mrs. Wilcox was this old hag with warts on her face and those glasses you have with a chain around your neck. Her dresses always smelled like mothballs. Hers was the last class of the day and the last thing that Jim wanted to do was hear Wilcox gush on about there is no frigate like a book or some crap like that. It was especially bad in May or June when Jim wanted to go outside and not hear old Mrs. Wilcox drone about alliteration or allegory or whatever. She was really hung up on poetry. Always going off how beautiful it was. The girls that sat behind him, the Hathaway twins, now there was something beautiful. Not ode to a nightingale or crap like that. He wondered what Mrs. Wilcox was doing now. She was pretty old when Jim had her so she was probably dead. One time that summer he ran into her downtown. James, she said, in that croaky warble she had, And just how is your summer treating you. She was like the only person that called him James. And she was like so boring. zToytally