School-ish

            I laugh at you. Yes,  you at the window. You at the desk, with your psychology book in front of you, pretending that you’re memorizing Piaget’s morality and a diagram of the eye. But I know better. Every few seconds, you look up at the snow, watching the roads to see if it’s sticking. Calculating the odds of there even being the test tomorrow, glancing at your computer. Longing to pick it up and troll the web or play stupid games or all those things you haven’t been able to do in days and days because they put all this emphasis on Finals, Finals with a capital F because you know that’s the grade you’re going to get if you say fuck this, the psychology book doesn’t control me, if you fling your hands in the air and run outside barefoot. Catch snowflakes on your tongue and laugh because you can count on one hand the amount of times per year it snows, but you’d need all your fingers and toes to rate on a scale of one to ten how upset your parents will be if you fail all your classes. How upset you’ll be, and college and jobs and Reality shit. I see you, and I laugh at you, because I’m already outside.