I'm feeling like a custard now, because you told me to. Who gave you the idea that a creative writing class should be method acting plus dramatic interp, all packed snug in juicy bullshit?

All right, McTavish, McGregor, McGhee, whatever your name is, all right.   I'm a custard.   I'm soft yet firm in the middle, and my edges are delicately browned. I'm in a little foil cup. I'm a lemony custard, and you'd like to sink a fork into my smooth creamy belly, upturned, helpless, exposed, for you.

Three years of this - six semesters of getting up early and heaving myself up stairs twice a week to sit in a high-schooler's carved-up desk and pretend to be a rotating assortment of pastries, all for you.

It's this sort of thing that makes a girl never want to make up anything good. I only want to give you garbage, the shallowest level of text, challenging no one and barely on-topic enough for the grade. I'd rather you didn't see my real ideas. They're not about dessert.

Years from now, I will send you a copy of something, something that is mine. Maybe you'll take partial credit, way back in your head. Maybe not so way back. Maybe you'll really think you had something to do with it, and drop my name, even. You could be right. It could be that all I needed was a little fire under my ass, a little incentive, something to yell about. Keep the book; it's all you will get. I am really learning, now, how to make myself into other things, and how to tell other people what is happening to me, and you are not going to get to hear about it.

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