I glance over at my iPod dock. It's 8:34, and I promised myself I'd start my pile of homework an hour ago. My music is blaring through the house. It's okay though, because I'm the only one home.
After a few more minutes of coaxing myself off my bed, I join my schoolbooks next to my desk. I sigh as I open my psychology textbook. I read a few sentences about inimical diseases to the mind before deciding the only pathology I need to know is that too much homework is mind-numbing. I don't understand any of it. Maybe I could call my friend, Charlotte, and ask, in the most amicable way possible, for every answer we've ever had to know for that class. She'd be enamored if I ran to her for help. Charlotte is a total bibliophile. She reads nonstop and gets every answer right when the teacher calls on her.
No way will I allow her that complacence. She'd never be able to be pacified. I decide to wait on the psychology and odiously switch over to trigonometry. My antipathy to all things math-related is immeasurable. I don't know why I have to keep up with it. I don't think classifying triangles will get me anywhere in my future line of work: writing. After another few minutes of pretending to work out an answer, it becomes clear that my apathy toward the subject will not allow any work to be finished.
I decide to pick up To Kill a Mockingbird instead. It's the book my English III class is reading. I'm about 50 pages behind already, and we started it last week. The word on the page appease me more than the numbers in my textbook, so I allow myself to read the fifty pages and crawl into bed.
I fall asleep remembering that it's Friday and I have the whole weekend to finish everything else. Who am I kidding? That's not getting finished.
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