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𝐜 𝐡 𝐚 𝐩 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫 𝐭 𝐡 𝐫 𝐞 𝐞
𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒃𝒐𝒚
The first week of classes have been brutal to say the least. Not only do I already have two assignments due for next week, our coach had to take some personal time off which meant try-outs weren't going to happen until he came back—and we don't know when that'll be, meaning we are officially behind in season. And to top it all off, pause for an extra dramatic drum roll... Vivienne is in five of my classes.
Five. Five fucking classes and I'm only taking eight. I have to sit and stare at her for a total of 22 and a half fucking hours a week. Granted I don't actually have to stare at her, or angle myself to be even looking at her in my peripheral vision, or glare at some douche who decided to sit on the seat I wanted to sit in so that I could look at her in my peripheral vision.
But whatever. The point is, at the end of the week—I'm reminded for 22 and a half hours that Vivienne Delaney absolutely hates my guts, when all I want to do is rearrange hers. It's incredibly frustrating. It'd be worse if she actually looked my way, glared at me or shot me another middle finger. But she doesn't. And that hurts me because I happen to think she has a nice middle finger. Very direct, very assertive. I like assertive girls now apparently.
She ignores me, acts as if I'm not even there. And she knows that I am there because people in our classes talk to me, throw themselves at me, I speak up during lectures or have questions thrown my way. And still nothing. Not even a look.
It's Friday afternoon, I've had to sit through two Vivienne lectures today with a hangover from last night's poker game at the house. I'm tired, I haven't eaten all day and my muscles are sore from this week's gym sessions. I want my bed and I want it now. I have my earbuds in; Arctic Monkey's blasting and doing nothing to help my headache, walking through the campus quad on my way to my black Land Rover when someone puts a strong grip on my bicep.
