Describe one of the classes you’re taking this semester.
In this class, you are dumb. A stumbling, stuttering, utterly uncomfortable mess. In this room, you are prey. In this moment, when the professor turns to you, eyes pointed at yours averted, the heat of your cheeks seems to draw the question that rockets forth from her trained tongue. Your mind? White. White like heaven, maybe. White like the hottest coals of hell. Either way, dead.
— April 10, 2013
The Kiwi Flies 