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Ich hab' keine lust (I don't feel like it)

Unit 3 physics: position equation, velocity equation…third equation. Wonder how far ahead the honors course is; the schedule said they were on the same unit. But not the same unit, god knows what material they cover in their unit 3. The test! Oh of course, the test…today would be review day, wouldn’t it? But no, that’s what the drug meeting is for, that’s why we have to go to it instead of class. Mandatory, wouldn’t want me to get too prepared, now, wouldn’t they?

Well, if you’re falling asleep, might as well do it during a meeting.

It’s not like we haven’t had a major drug meeting every single year, no sir; we’d forget is what would happen. Wouldn’t want us to forget what we’ve “learned” by the end of the year, wouldn’t they? Repetition is their staunchest ally.

No good to sleep during class, where everyone can see.

Hey, let’s go to college and get stoned. Why in the hell would we do that? Availability does not imply use. I’ve got a pair of scissors at home; maybe I’ll go ram them through my throat. But then, if they didn’t force feed us enough of this drug crap all the junkies in the world could turn right around and sue for not providing enough “positive enforcement” (and then buy more drugs). Couldn’t they have just given me a bible, or something, for me to swear on? I solemnly swear, with god as my witness, that I will not turn right round and sue your pants off. Oh, drug use? Can’t make any promises there.
But…meh. Is it really the meeting? Time could be better spent doing other things. The test, unit 3 I think, could always use some preparation, defiantly could. First semester and all; it demands our attention, doesn’t it? But…it’s not honors physics, it’s just plain old physics, failing that is about as probable as finding diversity in your cheerios.

The displacement is equal to the sum of the initial velocity multiplied by time and the acceleration multiplied by time squared.

Something else, then? College? Forget that. Early admission was dropped already, get over it. We’ve got time. It isn’t that. But what then? Final velocity is equal to the sum of the acceleration multiplied by time and the initial velocity.
Is there anything worth worrying about? This is senior year, existence at this time circles around college. It’s the friggin sun of our friggin world and it’s the friggin reason we friggin exist. It can be all, can’t it?

Final velocity squared is equal to the sum of the initial velocity squared and the acceleration multiplied by the distance multiplied by two…for some reason… We both know where the problem lies.

***
Eighteen years has given change onto this place only in the form of elevator break downs. Home is a home, surely, but they could liven it up at least once in a while. The lobby is the same as ever; still have to wait for the doorman to hit the button behind the desk before you can even open the door. Good thing the doorman’s never there, isn’t it? The central support column is lined with mirror, always refreshing to see how worn you look after a long day, and the elevator button doesn’t light up when you press it. The signal may or may not be sent, so no one really knows how many times you’re supposed to tap it. On the plus side, you do feel like a lottery winner if it arrives within the first ten minutes.
There’s someone else waiting with me. African American lady, looks all right, fairly young, just really exasperated. Wrinkle lines form all the better when you’re too angry to care. Thick shirt, sweat pants pulled up to her stomach, not the most attractive sight. So the elevator door opened, creaked open anyway, and up we went. Count the floors: 1…2…3. She got off at the third floor…congratulations, we have found a living example of a ninety year old man trapped in a thirty year old woman. Jesus Christ, three floors, perhaps she never went to high school, there they have us walking back and forth five flights whenever the fancy suits them. I wouldn’t mind walking up three floors. I would mind walking up to where a live, but that’s six times the amount of footwork.
Keys…keys…keys, there they are. Two locks before you can get inside, of course. And there she is, waiting there since the moment the keys jingled out of my pocket. I say hi to her and she stretched her arms; no doubt she was sleeping before I came in. I followed her to my room, turning on the computer as I passed it. My backpack and all its contents I left upon the bed as she stared out the window. I rubbed my temples, thinking of what work to tackle first.

The displacement is equal to…we’ve been over this already.

Aim, word and youtube popped up and I sat down. Rammstein’s Keine Lust began to play as I wrote the unnecessarily obligatory heading: name, date, teacher name, and class or something like that. She came back to me, sat in the chair across, and patiently waited. But how to start the first line? The assignment page isn’t even in front of me. Maybe I should go get it?

Ich hab' keine lust. Ich hab' keine lust.

I didn’t feel like it. Already missed early decision, so much work to do, probably would miss normal decision as well. Or if I made it, there would be another to take the position. Or was it really that bad?

Ich habe keine lust mich nicht zu hassen

I heard a meow and she was on the floor, sniffing the fuzzy mouse-like thing tied to a cord. I waved her away, didn’t feel like playing…didn’t feel like doing much.

At least it’s a damn good song

She brushed up against my leg, so I sort of used it to shove her away. She wasn’t the problem. Perhaps another she…Could’ve had something back then, prepared for something spectacular. Perhaps I could’ve been something wanted; something they seemed to want it back then. And now? Pfft, now I’m lucky to hear them from behind a door, the short gasps and exhalations and the yes, yes, yes…

We can’t all be winners

I know, but it’s hardly a justification. The only one I can see now is her, peeking at me from around the corner, wanting to play. I don’t have time for her; there are only certain people I want to see. Some for business others for fun, but neither will I meet. An amber-haired beauty with a smile of untouched snow; she still exists as if to taunt me about what could have happened…what should have happened back then. So what are we left with? A test, some obtuse application process, and a cat.

Ich hab' keine lust

Ich hab' keine lust

I don’t feel like it
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