She had ransacked her brain to bits to show up on time for her 8:30am this morning. And even though she was running on no sleep, she had a grin on her face, ready for the day. It was the end of the week; the school-week, the business week, the week of productivity and work, and rest was about to arrive. She had just accomplished her few short term goals last night, and there was no reason for her to feel anything but content. She was ready for the 8 days of freedom and rest that were awaiting her. She wanted to get away from these buildings, its brown walls, the stairs, the chairs, the desks, the books, the people. She wanted a break and that’s what she was getting in just 90 more minutes.
It’s not that I didn’t know how to write, or want to write—I did. It’s just that I didn’t know what to write. I had too many ideas, you know. It was all written in my head, but my fingers had refused to put it in ink.
Of course, I really didn’t have much of a choice, since I was paid by the word. And when I didn’t get my words out on paper, I was in trouble—lots of trouble. But trouble not in the same sense that you’d think. They worshipped me, and when they didn’t get their daily dose of my diction, they went a little crazy, a little cuckoo. “Fatta cuckoo,” to be more specific, as one of them described their own condition the other day. And I really couldn’t handle them when they went “fatta cuckoo.”