The Secret Life of the Teenage Calculus Failure

So, I fail at Calculus. No questions asked, my Calculus class is the hardest survival-of-the-fittest, eat-your-own-toes-to-survive endurance test I have ever ventured into. And on days when the illogical logic of math drives me attic-batty, I have to admit I sometimes . . . ignore . . . it. . . . I know I'm a despicable human being! x_x I'm sorry. I apologize to the world on hands and knees, forehead to the floor.

If you can forgive me, you may be curious about what occupies my mind while it is fleeing the horror of math. Well, naturally, the best escape is something that is the exact opposite of what you're running from. In this case, ENGLISH! Therefore, I kept my math book open on my desk, tapped my calculator keys with one hand at random intervals when my brain heard the teacher say "your calculators," and swirled words into my notebook with the other hand. Of course I glanced up every few seconds, made eye contact with the teacher, and nodded along with bits and pieces I actually understood, but for the majority of the problem (yes, we did indeed spend almost the entire class period on one problem), my mind jotted down the comings and goings of a psychopath.

. . . Psychopath? Yeah. Hey, it wasn't my fault the next scene of the story my mind chose as a focus point happened to be centered around one of the villains. But, as I documented his musings about missiles, blood, carnage, blood, and other such niceties, a few people walked past my desk, and it occured to me (mostly because of the guy who hovered), that anyone reading over my shoulder might be . . . misinterpreting the page's contents. Especially since my last few sentences had been direct thoughts from the character and therefore in first person.

Needless to say, I turned bright red, closed my notebook, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in understanding the second derivative of velocity.