🌥XII

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It's hard trying not to die in a classroom, especially at eight in the morning when the professor is droning on about the complexities in William Blake's poetry. I mean the guy was cool, I won't lie, he even drew things and colored the poems he wrote, that's artistic as hell. But, even though he'd be perfect to write those aesthetically pleasing tumblr poems a la "Milk and Honey", the subject is not interesting enough to get me not to rest my face on my hand and try really hard not to fall asleep.

I blame it on Ana and Ethan. Anna because of the stupid dare she gave us, the thought alone of breaking into the museum to ring the bells at midnight is so idiotic that I have to hold back from even thinking about it, lest I go chase her down again today. It's simply unfair to make us do this, it's even more ridiculous that I have to be a part of it, considering that I am already part of the club to begin with. I want to ask her why she'd do this, stomp my foot on the ground like an angry eight year old and demand for a refund because I did not sign up for this.

Unlike my class, which I did sign up for and which I am paying for.

"So in 'The Tyger' on the second stanza we can see how Blake — " I mindlessly highlight the first line on the second stanza, like I am actually paying attention to what the professor is saying, bless her soul, I know she's passionate about the subject but I can't find my way among the lecture without going back to what happened last night.

I blame Ethan, too, because of what he said about me. How in one way or the other he blamed me for putting up these walls and pushing people away, which he's not wrong. I let my guilt over take me and just try to fix everything on my own, that's who I am. My own guilt for not being a perfect student led me to the club in the first place and there's nothing I can do to fix that. It's a personality thing, that's all. If I feel like he hates me there won't be many things to change that in my mind.

"Now, let's go back to 'The Lamb', how is that poem different from something, let's say Wordsworth would write?"

There was also the pinky promise, and the hug thing, how things had felt different, even for a second. I don't want to dwell on that too much because it's way too damn easy for me to develop feelings for someone if I don't keep myself in check. It's terrifying, really, whenever I dare develop a crush on anybody I feel physically ill, like at any moment that I'm around them I am going to just throw up, or faint, or something.

It's not like this is the first time though, I've had two relationships in the past, as well as some other "encounters" as Carlos likes to call them, since he was the one that moved the strings for most of them, but the feelings never change. It's like I'm allergic to romance. Not that I don't want it, my body just won't let me function normally while I'm crushing on a person.

"So for the next class you guys will have to read Keats' selected poems from your syllabus. You will find his way of writing different from Blake's so we'll be comparing and contrasting those two next week." God, and I promised myself that I would pay attention to class this time, I have failed Dr. Wilson. "You kids take care, I'll see you next week."

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