He walks in late. With his cambridge worn sweatshirt, scruffy beard and greasy hair. He asks for a "writing utensil", in that strange accent I'm so accustomed to hearing. And then I see it. the pimple. the pimple just asking to be popped. Sitting there on the side of his face in it's ready-to-burst glory. I want to jump over the desk and squeeze it. Popping a pimple is like taking a shit. It hurts and takes a little pushing, but after it's over, the feeling is so satisfying. Maybe I'm the only human being who can admit that taking a shit is satisfying, but it's the truth so there you have it. Anyway, his face is like the moon, or something like it, full of craters from previous pus filled pimples. I am seriously fantasizing about popping this pimple. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Obviously this is all I can think about for my entire three hour class.
Crazy.
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