the one percent [5sos a.u.]

chapter 4

It was the last Wednesday of September, and I listened to my French professor blab excessively about some form of grammar. You would think that after seven goddamn years of French class, I wouldn’t have to take one in college. Apparently, no matter how fluent you are, you have to obtain college credit for anyone to fucking believe you. The International Relations major requires proficiency in a foreign language; I took both French and Spanish in high school. Spanish was easier in terms of grammar, but French was easier in terms of vocabulary and interpersonal circumstances. I chose to do a semester of French to just get it out of the way, but right about now it’s making me want to die. Oh, and don’t even get me started on my Chinese class.

I sat between a boy and a girl. The girls name was Jackie and the boys name was Michael. Jackie wore a white button down tucked into dark wash skinny jeans paired with red studded Valentino sling-backs and a single strand of pearls. It was classy but stylish, nothing like how I looked. I wore a pair of black high waisted skinny jeans, an oversized ivory turtleneck sweater (don’t underestimate, it probably costs more than your life), and black leather thigh high boots. Anyways, Jackie was cool, I’ll probably end up being friends with her, but Michael was just damn intriguing. 

Michael was quiet, he raised his hand every once in a while, and I think he dyed his hair last week. One day it was blonde-ish and now it’s some black/purple hybrid. Although I had no room to talk, because I dyed my hair black and cut off five inches; what kind of stupid bitch does that? I felt someone tapping on my shoulder.

“Je m’en fous. C’est des connenes.” (I don’t give a fuck. This is bullshit.) 

I turned to my left; Michael was muttering things to himself, typing madly. I tapped Michael on the shoulder.

“Etes-vous bien?” (Are you good?) 

He looked shocked that I was commenting on his explicit mindless ramblings.

“Madame Cassan peut sucer ma bite” (Madame Cassan can suck my dick.)

I snorted and Michael chuckled to himself,

            “Vrai, cette classe est enneuyeux. ” (True, this class is boring.)

            “Quand peut-on laisser?” (When can we leave?)

            “Je ne sais pas.” (I don’t know.)

Michael leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his ridiculous hair and yawning.

            “Monsieur Clifford? Etes-vous fatigue?” (Mr. Clifford? Are you tired?)

            “Non, Madame, Je s’étirait. Je suis désolé” (No, Madame, I just stretched. I am sorry.)

            “Ah, oui. Nous allons continuer la leçon.” (Ah, yes. We will continue the lesson.)

And the damn bitch continued her leçon for another hour; I actually considered eating the stapler.

My phone buzzed as I exited the building.

Calum Hood

            Ur coming to the game right? 

Aleksandra Ackermann

            What time?

Calum Hood