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Sickie's Journal, November 3.
Elevensomething To Twosomething.

The girl looks over the edge of the building, only it's not a real building; rather, the top floor of a Parking Garage on her campus.
She wraps her stubby little retardfingers around the nasty ugly brown railing (she has to wash her hands from touching the germy ugly thing) and looks down at the grass four floors below.

She thinks about jumping.

She leans a little over the railing.
There's another bit of brown roof below.  She wouldn't clear it by jumping.  She'd just land on it and maybe break some bones.
And it would suck.

She leans back.

Now that she has decided not to jump, she looks out at the full Parking Lot F.  Three yellow blots, then a mass of dark, steely blue-green-grey-black.  This is indiscreetly interrupted by swatches of off-white, beige or subdued red.
she looks over at her own car.  It's red and doesn't stand out much in this thick cloudy light.

Whatever, it still fucking rocks.

She pulls open the purple binder sitting in her lap, opens it to the section designated for Algebra.  She removes a practice test that's due today.  She works on it, taking brief glances at the parking lot for no particular reason.
There's a big, breen Volkwagen bus.  She sees it every day.  She worships it silently for a moment before returning to her work.  This is pretty easy, so she flies through it.

Her throat hurts.

She glances up, finished quickly because this is the third fucking time she's taken Algebra I, and she knows this stuff.

Her bulky green DemiGod is gone.

She zips up her binder and clamors back into the warmth of her Camry.  She pulls out a book and reads for a while.

Her phone goes off.  The alarm set for class is loud and annoying.  She saves her place in the book with a newspaper leaflet she got at Starbucks (Because she's SO FUCKING HIP) and climbs out of the car, into the cold, with that purple binder.  She heads for the stairs.

There are glass windows holding the doorway in place, she she catches a silhoutted glimps of her reflection.  Her hair is short and brown and curly to almost nappiness.  She looks bigger on the top half of her body due to fat and a baggy brown-and-black-stripes hoodie, unzipped and hood-down.  She's wearing skinny jeans on legs that, although shapely (she thinks, the fucking disillusioned Narcissist), are not skinny.

She starts down the stairs, round and round and round until she gets back to the ground floor, to the outside.  She heads toward the ridiculously large building that houses her math class.

There's a Scene Kid walking in front of her.  He's wearing a brown (or maybe it's grey)-and-black-stripes hoodie and skinny jeans.  So very fucking Scene.  She supposes the hair under that stripey hood is long, brown, straight, greasy.  She wonders why Scene Kids can't just bathe (maybe they're rebelling against water).  The fact that she and the scene kid are dressed similarly registers.

She thinks about killing him.
Just running up to him and jamming a pair of scissors (that she doesn't have, not really) into the back of his neck.
Or his temple.
Or the back of his skull.
Or getting him to turn around, and getting them into his eye or in his mouth.
She wonders if the edge of her cell phone past his lips and down his throat would achieve the same effect, or give her the same sick satisfaction.

Probably not.

She she keeps walking, up the stairs and through the doors to, oh boy, even more stairs.

Her throat really hurts.
She has Post-Nasal Drip.  She's had it all day.
That's what she tells herself, anyway, because she can't have strep, she's willing herself not to, even though it feels just like strep and she gets strep every Goddamn year.
she secretly knows it's strep, but she has to keep moving, keep pretending it's Post-Nasal Drip, because being sick means staying home from work, and staying home from work means not getting paid, and how can she live off of a fourth of her paycheck for two weeks?

She can't, that's how.

So she'll be careful at work, careful to carry around a bottle of hand sanitizer with her and use it every fifteen minutes, careful not to breathe on those spoiled little cunts, the privileged Upper-Middle Class Private-School progeny of nurses, doctors, I.T. geniuses.  Those fucking kids that go from sweet to threatening to tell your boss that you touched their pants, even if you never wanted to, never even considered doing something like that, just to get their way.

On second thought, maybe she'll germ the little bastards up and make her job easier for a few days.

As she muses over this she climbs the stairs and trips once, nearly falling over a sweeping janitor.
She mumbles a "sorry" in a shy, innocent voice that doesn't sound anything like the voice a person as mean and cynical as she is should have.
Still going up the stairs she trips again on her stupidly oversized black Converse, and curses this time, under her breath.
As soon as she makes it up the damn stairs in one piece she beelines for the bathroom on that floor to catch her breath (because the fat bitch is really out of shape).

She hides in a stall, panting like a dog and trying to sit the fucking binder upright in a piece of stall door that hangs off to hold announcements.
The binder's too heavy.  It breaks the door.
"Goddammitfuckshitshit" goes her silent mantra, and she sticks the damn bulky thing in the aide-bar-thing beside the Handicap toilet, something her stupid ass should have tried ages ago.  Moments later she retrieves the binder and goes to wash her hands.
As she goes to leave the bathroom there's an awkward scuffle between her and another woman trying to get in.  She apologizes profusely in that same uncharacteristic-ass voice and lurches towards her math classroom (because her walk isn't a walk:  it's an awkward lurch trying desperately not to be a waddle).

The room is still nearly empty, but she takes her seat behind the homeless-looking guy in the ratty tye-dye, the yellow-and-blue-stripes kint cap, and the threadbare brown jeans.

She really wants those jeans.

She hates that guy.  With his shitty ugly white-guy dreads that hardly constitute as such, and look nappy and gross.
He looks asleep, because God forbid he pay for school and get something out of it.

She thinks he lives with his mommy.  That she pays for everything he wants, but he "rebels" in his dress while mommy makes him cake and cookies.

She thinks he's another Jake.
Suddenly she hates him a little more.

She hears the full-grown men beside her drooling like idiots over football and Guitar Hero, and wants to be sick.  She ignores the lecture as the teacher so boring he makes himself fall asleep drones on in his Southern monotone, because she knows all this already.  This is a review.  She writes down a problem just to be sure she knows this, answers it quickly, goes back to ignoring the lecture.

Yeah, she knows this stuff.

The lecture's finally over, she's the first one out the door.  She's careful going down the stairs this time, because tripping here would be really bad for her clumsy ass.  Her whole neck hurts and she feels feverish, so the wind on her round (and possibly beet red) face is entirely welcome.

There's some guy walking the same path as she is, about two yards behind her.  She feels sudden (crazy) irrational paranoia.  He's going to stab her.

She walks faster.

She reaches the Parking Garage stairs and calms down slightly.  He's not there anymore.

She starts up the stairs again, looking out at the little gazebo positioned between the Parking Garage and Parking Lot F.  All the AutoMechanics students usually smoke there, and sure enough there are ten-and-something blue uniforms in and raound the old thing.  There's also a Hipster that looks like EuroTrash (that she desperately wants to kick in the head, or curb-stomp) and a uniformed Soldier (Thank you for defending blah blah, she always wants to say but lacks the nerve and spine).

She reaches the top, where her car is parked.  She's (surprisingly, the sloth) not winded, but (not-surprisingly, the fatass) desperately hungry.

She gets in her car.  Now she has to go to work, yay.

Janis Joplin screams bakc to life as she starts up the car.  She can see through the window that the Green Machine is back.  The stupid fucking Sickie is feverish and dizzy.  She doesn't know how she'll make it to work.

Her throat really fucking hurts.

Description
Sickie's Journal, November 3.
Elevensomething To Twosomething.

The girl looks over the edge of the building, only it's not a real building; rather, the top floor of a Parking Garage on her campus.
She wraps her stubby little retardfingers around the nasty ugly brown railing (she has to wash her hands from touching the germy ugly thing) and looks down at the grass four floors below.

She thinks about jumping.

She leans a little over the railing.
There's another bit of brown roof below.  She wouldn't clear it by jumping.  She'd just land on it and maybe break some bones.
And it would suck.

She leans back.

Now that she has decided not to jump, she looks out at the full Parking Lot F.  Three yellow blots, then a mass of dark, steely blue-green-grey-black.  This is indiscreetly interrupted by swatches of off-white, beige or subdued red.
she looks over at her own car.  It's red and doesn't stand out much in this thick cloudy light.

Whatever, it still fucking rocks.

She pulls open the purple binder sitting in her lap, opens it to the section designated for Algebra.  She removes a practice test that's due today.  She works on it, taking brief glances at the parking lot for no particular reason.
There's a big, breen Volkwagen bus.  She sees it every day.  She worships it silently for a moment before returning to her work.  This is pretty easy, so she flies through it.

Her throat hurts.

She glances up, finished quickly because this is the third fucking time she's taken Algebra I, and she knows this stuff.

Her bulky green DemiGod is gone.

She zips up her binder and clamors back into the warmth of her Camry.  She pulls out a book and reads for a while.

Her phone goes off.  The alarm set for class is loud and annoying.  She saves her place in the book with a newspaper leaflet she got at Starbucks (Because she's SO FUCKING HIP) and climbs out of the car, into the cold, with that purple binder.  She heads for the stairs.

There are glass windows holding the doorway in place, she she catches a silhoutted glimps of her reflection.  Her hair is short and brown and curly to almost nappiness.  She looks bigger on the top half of her body due to fat and a baggy brown-and-black-stripes hoodie, unzipped and hood-down.  She's wearing skinny jeans on legs that, although shapely (she thinks, the fucking disillusioned Narcissist), are not skinny.

She starts down the stairs, round and round and round until she gets back to the ground floor, to the outside.  She heads toward the ridiculously large building that houses her math class.

There's a Scene Kid walking in front of her.  He's wearing a brown (or maybe it's grey)-and-black-stripes hoodie and skinny jeans.  So very fucking Scene.  She supposes the hair under that stripey hood is long, brown, straight, greasy.  She wonders why Scene Kids can't just bathe (maybe they're rebelling against water).  The fact that she and the scene kid are dressed similarly registers.

She thinks about killing him.
Just running up to him and jamming a pair of scissors (that she doesn't have, not really) into the back of his neck.
Or his temple.
Or the back of his skull.
Or getting him to turn around, and getting them into his eye or in his mouth.
She wonders if the edge of her cell phone past his lips and down his throat would achieve the same effect, or give her the same sick satisfaction.

Probably not.

She she keeps walking, up the stairs and through the doors to, oh boy, even more stairs.

Her throat really hurts.
She has Post-Nasal Drip.  She's had it all day.
That's what she tells herself, anyway, because she can't have strep, she's willing herself not to, even though it feels just like strep and she gets strep every Goddamn year.
she secretly knows it's strep, but she has to keep moving, keep pretending it's Post-Nasal Drip, because being sick means staying home from work, and staying home from work means not getting paid, and how can she live off of a fourth of her paycheck for two weeks?

She can't, that's how.

So she'll be careful at work, careful to carry around a bottle of hand sanitizer with her and use it every fifteen minutes, careful not to breathe on those spoiled little cunts, the privileged Upper-Middle Class Private-School progeny of nurses, doctors, I.T. geniuses.  Those fucking kids that go from sweet to threatening to tell your boss that you touched their pants, even if you never wanted to, never even considered doing something like that, just to get their way.

On second thought, maybe she'll germ the little bastards up and make her job easier for a few days.

As she muses over this she climbs the stairs and trips once, nearly falling over a sweeping janitor.
She mumbles a "sorry" in a shy, innocent voice that doesn't sound anything like the voice a person as mean and cynical as she is should have.
Still going up the stairs she trips again on her stupidly oversized black Converse, and curses this time, under her breath.
As soon as she makes it up the damn stairs in one piece she beelines for the bathroom on that floor to catch her breath (because the fat bitch is really out of shape).

She hides in a stall, panting like a dog and trying to sit the fucking binder upright in a piece of stall door that hangs off to hold announcements.
The binder's too heavy.  It breaks the door.
"Goddammitfuckshitshit" goes her silent mantra, and she sticks the damn bulky thing in the aide-bar-thing beside the Handicap toilet, something her stupid ass should have tried ages ago.  Moments later she retrieves the binder and goes to wash her hands.
As she goes to leave the bathroom there's an awkward scuffle between her and another woman trying to get in.  She apologizes profusely in that same uncharacteristic-ass voice and lurches towards her math classroom (because her walk isn't a walk:  it's an awkward lurch trying desperately not to be a waddle).

The room is still nearly empty, but she takes her seat behind the homeless-looking guy in the ratty tye-dye, the yellow-and-blue-stripes kint cap, and the threadbare brown jeans.

She really wants those jeans.

She hates that guy.  With his shitty ugly white-guy dreads that hardly constitute as such, and look nappy and gross.
He looks asleep, because God forbid he pay for school and get something out of it.

She thinks he lives with his mommy.  That she pays for everything he wants, but he "rebels" in his dress while mommy makes him cake and cookies.

She thinks he's another Jake.
Suddenly she hates him a little more.

She hears the full-grown men beside her drooling like idiots over football and Guitar Hero, and wants to be sick.  She ignores the lecture as the teacher so boring he makes himself fall asleep drones on in his Southern monotone, because she knows all this already.  This is a review.  She writes down a problem just to be sure she knows this, answers it quickly, goes back to ignoring the lecture.

Yeah, she knows this stuff.

The lecture's finally over, she's the first one out the door.  She's careful going down the stairs this time, because tripping here would be really bad for her clumsy ass.  Her whole neck hurts and she feels feverish, so the wind on her round (and possibly beet red) face is entirely welcome.

There's some guy walking the same path as she is, about two yards behind her.  She feels sudden (crazy) irrational paranoia.  He's going to stab her.

She walks faster.

She reaches the Parking Garage stairs and calms down slightly.  He's not there anymore.

She starts up the stairs again, looking out at the little gazebo positioned between the Parking Garage and Parking Lot F.  All the AutoMechanics students usually smoke there, and sure enough there are ten-and-something blue uniforms in and raound the old thing.  There's also a Hipster that looks like EuroTrash (that she desperately wants to kick in the head, or curb-stomp) and a uniformed Soldier (Thank you for defending blah blah, she always wants to say but lacks the nerve and spine).

She reaches the top, where her car is parked.  She's (surprisingly, the sloth) not winded, but (not-surprisingly, the fatass) desperately hungry.

She gets in her car.  Now she has to go to work, yay.

Janis Joplin screams bakc to life as she starts up the car.  She can see through the window that the Green Machine is back.  The stupid fucking Sickie is feverish and dizzy.  She doesn't know how she'll make it to work.

Her throat really fucking hurts.