Yesterday and today our mentor teacher has been teaching a lesson on six word stories, which was inspired by an article in BlackBook Magazine. The idea comes from Ernest Hemingway, who apparently once at a meeting bet a bunch of other writers--including Fitzgerald and Faulkner--that he could write a story in six words, and he won. Personally, I doubt if it happened like that--it sounds too dramatic.
BlackBook had a bunch of contemporary authors try to write their own six word stories, but Hemingway's is still the best. It is:

For sale: baby shoes, never used.

I have a paper due tomorrow that I really don't want to write. It's an observation paper--I had to observe another class at CRLS and analyze what I saw. In utter seriousness, having to write this paper is making me condsider dropping out of this program. That sounds melodramatic, but I mean that I'm so sick of doing work that I don't care about. I did it throughout school and for a lot of college, and I don't think I can make myself do it anymore. I told Adam that writing this paper is like when he and I tried to carry that mattress and box spring a mile and a half to our house: I basically just write in short spurts, rest for a little bit, and then steel myself to pick it back up and go a little further. While I'm writing, I'm trying not to let myself think how much I fucking hate it. And I'm not just complaining because I don't want to write it--I've already got three pages, so I only have five more to write tonight, and, whatever, I've done that before. It's more the sense of wasting my time and intelligence. I had these fears before I entered this program, and they're coming true. How many poems have I written since I've been here? How many songs? How many open mics have I played?

FUCK, I have to go to class. I wish I were a better writer.