Sorry, Dr. Blake.
Moving on…onetwothree.
3.) I talked to your Professional Writing Lab I professor, Dr. Harper,
What? Freaking stalker. Ugh . Reading more…
and he told me that you have the rough draft of a paper due tomorrow. I want you to make yourself NOT check it three times before turning it in.
And hand it in with possible typos and grammatical errors? And get a B? Or worse? Not a chance, dude.
What a sucky list of things I don’t plan on doing.
Wait. There’s more. Dear God.
Onetwothree. Read.
I have a full schedule today, so I want you to try these three assignments on your own. Everything you will need is in this box.
What?
Okay, yes, the box is too heavy to just be holding this paper, his list of instructions, but…UGH. He’s really serious about me doing this stuff.
I’m not ready to see what’s in the box. I’m not ready to see my assignment materials yet (or ever), so I don’t pick up his list of instructions. I don’t find out what’s underneath.
I finish reading instead. Because there’s more. There is still more.
Oh—I’ve also sent some of the articles that you wrote for the conference. I thought you might like to have some of the newspaper clippings.
My articles. The ones published in multiple newspapers. Read by various people. I forgot about them again.
I keep forgetting about them. My Dream Overlooked. Dream Forgotten. Forgotten over and over and over again.
He didn’t forget, though. Or maybe he has used his mind-reading powers to tap into some secret far corner of my mind that I can’t even personally access. Maybe in that secret corner, I have time…energy…space…to be excited about my published work, or—
Buzz. My phone buzzes on my dresser.
I put my (his) box beside me on the bed so I can grab my phone.
A text from Melanie. Open.
Abby had so much fun yesterday. Thanks for watching her!
Write back.
No problem. How are you feeling?
Send. Pick nails.
Buzz. Open.
Great. It’s nice to be back at work today.
Reply.
Just take it easy!
Send. I really hope she isn’t going back into crazy Melanie-work-all-of-the-time-mode. And I hope that she doesn’t start bleeding again. Please don’t let her bleed again. Please don’t let her bleed ag—
Buzz. Open.
I will. Have a good day, Callie.
P.S. I want to hear about your therapy soon :)
Ugh . Therapy. That’s right.
I type a quick goodbye message to Melanie and put my phone down. Then my eyes slide reluctantly back to the box on my bed.
Time to see my materials. My stupid freaking materials.
But first, I need to finish reading his instructions. I sit back on my bed and read.
Have a good day, Callie. I’ll text you tonight after you get back from work.
-Aiden
He’s not going to text until after 7:00 p.m. I wonder if he really is THAT busy all day or if he just wants to see if I can do some of this stuff on my own. Or—
Oh my God.
Or, is it possible that this is a trick? What if he’s going to surprise me and show up somewhere today WITH JUDY?
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.
I can’t think about this right now. Or I’m going to throw up again. And then I’ll never make it to work.
Quick decision. Quick distraction.
I tear his instruction letter out of the box and force my eyes to focus on the items beneath. {Judy Garland sings “ Over the Rainbow” in my head.}
Item number one. A small, brand new bottle of gooey, nasty syrup. A note is taped to it. His handwriting again.
Microwaveable pancakes are in your freezer.
Ugh. Back to the box.
Next up…a plastic bag with two dollar bills in it.
How many people have touched these dollars?
Ugh again. Back to the box again.
Finally, newspaper clippings. In plastic page protectors. Thank God. He somehow, of course, knows that I don’t like touching newspapers. Don’t like getting my hands all black.
I pick up the plastic sheets. And I look
Moving on…onetwothree.
3.) I talked to your Professional Writing Lab I professor, Dr. Harper,
What? Freaking stalker. Ugh . Reading more…
and he told me that you have the rough draft of a paper due tomorrow. I want you to make yourself NOT check it three times before turning it in.
And hand it in with possible typos and grammatical errors? And get a B? Or worse? Not a chance, dude.
What a sucky list of things I don’t plan on doing.
Wait. There’s more. Dear God.
Onetwothree. Read.
I have a full schedule today, so I want you to try these three assignments on your own. Everything you will need is in this box.
What?
Okay, yes, the box is too heavy to just be holding this paper, his list of instructions, but…UGH. He’s really serious about me doing this stuff.
I’m not ready to see what’s in the box. I’m not ready to see my assignment materials yet (or ever), so I don’t pick up his list of instructions. I don’t find out what’s underneath.
I finish reading instead. Because there’s more. There is still more.
Oh—I’ve also sent some of the articles that you wrote for the conference. I thought you might like to have some of the newspaper clippings.
My articles. The ones published in multiple newspapers. Read by various people. I forgot about them again.
I keep forgetting about them. My Dream Overlooked. Dream Forgotten. Forgotten over and over and over again.
He didn’t forget, though. Or maybe he has used his mind-reading powers to tap into some secret far corner of my mind that I can’t even personally access. Maybe in that secret corner, I have time…energy…space…to be excited about my published work, or—
Buzz. My phone buzzes on my dresser.
I put my (his) box beside me on the bed so I can grab my phone.
A text from Melanie. Open.
Abby had so much fun yesterday. Thanks for watching her!
Write back.
No problem. How are you feeling?
Send. Pick nails.
Buzz. Open.
Great. It’s nice to be back at work today.
Reply.
Just take it easy!
Send. I really hope she isn’t going back into crazy Melanie-work-all-of-the-time-mode. And I hope that she doesn’t start bleeding again. Please don’t let her bleed again. Please don’t let her bleed ag—
Buzz. Open.
I will. Have a good day, Callie.
P.S. I want to hear about your therapy soon :)
Ugh . Therapy. That’s right.
I type a quick goodbye message to Melanie and put my phone down. Then my eyes slide reluctantly back to the box on my bed.
Time to see my materials. My stupid freaking materials.
But first, I need to finish reading his instructions. I sit back on my bed and read.
Have a good day, Callie. I’ll text you tonight after you get back from work.
-Aiden
He’s not going to text until after 7:00 p.m. I wonder if he really is THAT busy all day or if he just wants to see if I can do some of this stuff on my own. Or—
Oh my God.
Or, is it possible that this is a trick? What if he’s going to surprise me and show up somewhere today WITH JUDY?
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.
I can’t think about this right now. Or I’m going to throw up again. And then I’ll never make it to work.
Quick decision. Quick distraction.
I tear his instruction letter out of the box and force my eyes to focus on the items beneath. {Judy Garland sings “ Over the Rainbow” in my head.}
Item number one. A small, brand new bottle of gooey, nasty syrup. A note is taped to it. His handwriting again.
Microwaveable pancakes are in your freezer.
Ugh. Back to the box.
Next up…a plastic bag with two dollar bills in it.
How many people have touched these dollars?
Ugh again. Back to the box again.
Finally, newspaper clippings. In plastic page protectors. Thank God. He somehow, of course, knows that I don’t like touching newspapers. Don’t like getting my hands all black.
I pick up the plastic sheets. And I look
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