Making Mark Love Me

Last night was the first day of class for the spring semester. I pondered why the winter break went by so incredibly fast as I tossed my concrete filled backpack onto a table in the back row of my first class. This semester, all but one of my textbooks are hard covers.

It took me exactly twelve seconds to look over and fall in love with a guy in my history class. He is just adorable; slim frame, messy hair. The way he slouched in his chair and played with his iPhone during the syllabus review…dreamy.   During attendance, I discovered my betrothed name was Mark Jacobson. I immediately started to doodle on the cover of my The America Promise (the irony didn't pass me) textbook. Mrs. Steven Jacobson. Mark and Steve forever. Steve loves Mark.  Around this time of fighting the urge to write a note asking if he liked me, check YES or NO, I had the thought that you don’t hear a lot of kids these days named Mark. Oh, my crush is like eighteen?  I tore the cover from my book and broke up with Mark in a crushing scene. In my head.  I am such a dirty old man. 

Be warned: I am taking a philosophy class and also studying the biographies of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X this semester. Ahead for us lies/lays (God, I should of taken another English class) geeky blog posts in regard to Plato, Dr. King, and how Mark Jacobson doesn’t love me.