God I hate writing.
Everything I write has to be smart.
I'm caving under the pressure.
and my Dad wants to know what I am going to do with my life.
He tells me I should start driving again.
But there is no one to help me and god damn it I am not driving with him ever again!
He mumbles everything.
I'm like a deer in headlights my hands grasping the wheel I'll kill everyone on the road.
What would happen if I told him all I wanted to do was be a face character
in Disneyland?
I'm the right height for Snow White.
I got the round face
and the squeaky voice
and big eyes.
Little kids like me.
I would rather hug a zillion boys and girls
and call them "little Prince" and "little Princess"
then be stuck here writing a damn essay about Frankenstein.
Which by the way I haven't started yet.
I'm thinking of getting another iced tea.
It would be my second today and that would make it four servings.
Sometimes I wonder if I am hiding behind my weight.
As I write this I realize I am only stalling for time.
I have to write that damn essay.
God I hate writing.
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I love the part about being simultaneously a deer in the headlights AND behind the wheel, along with the Disneyland aspirations. I like the rage in that section. A lot of this feels like filler, mere "chat"--all the "God I hate etc. stuff--but if you could expand that hostile fantasy of being a crazed deer on the road to Disneyland, without stepping out of the hallucination to editorialize, it could be very engaging.
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