Pickup Line 16

 I don’t even know where to begin.  Six years ago, when everything went to Hell?  Four years ago, when I left Kansas for good?  18 years ago?  Today?

She hated this class.  She hadn’t always been a numbers girl, but since she started college, she looked for facts, stats, the quantifiable.  But a Liberal Arts education, a holistic human being–has to take the humanities and the arts.

The creative writing class?  Introduction to Memoir?  What a mistake.  The prof had been a priest who fell in love with a hot guy in his congregation, cast aside his faith and wrote a best seller about it.  He was the famous writer-in-residence at her school, one of the rock star faculty members, probably because he actually said things like “put more of your soul on the page” and told the dirtiest jokes you could imagine.  She did not appreciate either of these things.  She’d rather learn how to write.  A little clarity would be good.

Instead, he made them read Augustine’s Confessions in the first week and went all Freudian with the pears.

WHAT. THE. HELL. She texted to her friend, whom she’d convinced to take the class along with her. HORNDOG CREEPER.

UGH came the text in reply.

I like to imagine what it might be like to go back to the night my parents met. Maybe I could’ve warned them?  But then, who would be writing this memoir?

He’d totally eat that up.

Just like Augustine and those damn pears.

I have some ideas of where I want the third part of this project to go.  Playing with a new voice.


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