The wheels began turning in her mind as she walked into the classroom.
I am making a fool out of myself. She could never tell if it would be okay, if she would do okay. What if I'll just never be good enough or don't have the drive or whatever?
She had had a fight with Quentin 2 hours prior and the stingy feelings of resentment still burned in her throat. Still such an asshole. He had been no support to her in the wake of her father's death.
She took her seat next to the girl with the beautiful eyes and the terrible stutter, who still insisted on speaking despite of the stutter, who did not care that it made others uncomfortable, who did not apologize for occupying that space.
I think it's funny how people dream. We just go out of commission. We have no control. It just shows how utterly out of control we are of everything. What if I have no control over whether I become a writer or not? Do I want it enough? I want to say yes. But what I really want is fame, recognition, acceptance. I wonder if this goes back to when other kids were mean to me as a child. I feel like I've had something to prove ever since then. Why? Why can't I just be happy in my own skin? I'm getting fat. I should go on a diet. I want to eat vanilla pudding with sliced strawberries when I get home. Yum.
