Every morning my cell phone increasingly rings, at my own setting, to consecutive beeping. It is 7am, and it is not time for me to wake up. It is time for me to touch the bottom right of the screen, where a rectangular shape says "snooze". I tap it, and 5 minutes later, the alarm repeats itself. This time I get up, as for the past three weeks my five minute warning has been helping me slowly get two legs out of bed. I proceed to the bathroom where I pick my nose and pick the crust out of my eyes. I then look into the mirror and pick the zits on me that have crawled their way to the surface of my sleeping skin, just like a soldier drags his belly along the deep grasses of vietnam. After I have taken my shower, eaten breakfast, and driven through traffic that is slowly creeping north day by day, I arrive in class.
No, first I pass my class. I'm 3 minutes late and I go to room 330. Last semester's math class was in room 330. This time, it is in room 326, by quincidence. As the unlit room of 330 tells me that I have gone too far, I turn around and precide to enter my intentional destination. I first don't hear the teacher or see the chalkboard. No, the first thing that comes to my senses everyday as I enter is that smell. That smell was an unwelcoming gift on the first day of class. As a good, attentative student, I chose to sit in the front row, middle column, as to always be in attention of my teacher and be forced to focus. And that smell! Every time my teacher walked past me, it got worse. It was like a sine graph, the smell getting better and worse, better and worse, as the teacher walked back and forth, back and forth. It smelled like one of those towels that you use when you get out of the shower, and you're just to lazy to put it in the laundry. So it just sits there. Everyday, you use the same towel. As the weeks go by, it smells worse. You go to bring the towel to your head, to dry your hair, and you can smell it. But then, if you take that towel and leave it out in the sun, out to bake for a day, then the smell is no longer damp. No, that smell is now singed into the towel. It is that smell that my teacher prespires of. But he had to do worse.
His stature is about 6 feet, 1 inch with one and a half beer bellies and chest not as big as one would expect. The top of his head balds, but the rest of his greying hair curls under like he had just worn a ball cap from the previous nights sleep. It looks like he hasn't shaven in months, but really he has trimmed the hair along his neck and the whiskers that curl inches around his face to look like an organized mess. As I mentioned, his curse to his students is a gift to him: despite his large belly, he lacks any moobs (man boobs). And so, despite his figure and pungent smell, he insists on wearing the tightest shirts that hug his figure like a conservationalist hugs a tree. And so, when the proportion of his belly to his chest is added to the tightness of his shirt, what this equation equals are protuding nipples! His nipples, everyday, stick out half an inch, orthoganal (perpindicular) to his chest. It's as if he had just gotten his nipples pierced in 20 below weather. But instead, he is teaching comfortably to his students in tight shirt, pointed nipples (they sometimes point at me and I don't know how to feel), and odored pits.
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