The same thing happened over and over again: Emma would want a drink, but she’d have some class to go to. She’d tell herself she shouldn’t drink, because class. Then again, she reminded herself, she really wanted to drink.
This would always give her an idea, (You know it’s going to be a bad idea, right? Get it? Because… you know… because the title of this serial? Hahaha. Hoo. Ho. Heehee. I am… I am a fucking literary genius. Li-Ter-Ar-Y Genius! Hahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
I’m so alone.
Wait, how the fuck did this sentence start again? Now I’ve gotta go check before this parenthetical statement, and you probably do, too. Okay, I can see how we started. I can finish this sentence. You can too. Wooh. Let’s do this.) a bad idea (ha).
The idea was that she should drink, and then go to class. Go to class drunk! Who cared? All her classes were lectures, anyway.
And that was true. Nobody in her Astronomy really gave a shit that she was drunk. Most of the kids were busy with their iBloops and their Biddly-bop-electro-majiggys. The Professor was making a really weird joke where he was dancing to his Power Point Presentation. As he put it, this meant he was “dancing with the stars.”
Emma payed it no mind. Still, she realized she probably shouldn’t have gone to class drunk. It made her feel dirty. Every bit of her skin felt wrong, and god her head felt weird.
Then she got a text, from Anne: “hey you seen cat?”
Emma sighed, then texted back under the table, “no.”