Reason #3 to still say no, watch out Nancy Reagan

Week 3:

Enter Ducky, who finds a way to sit practically on top of me.

Ducky: So I had this dream about my mom and my dad.

Me: (ignore)

D: My dad is a minister, ya know?

Me: (ignore)

D: Anyways, so in this dream, he is having hot slapping ass sex with my mom, who is all into leather and cuffs.

Me: (sigh)

D: She's not really like that, at least I don't think so. It's kinda weird to think about your parents having sex, isn't it?

Me: (deeper sigh)

D: Anyways, it was this crazy dream in which the kid, that's me, walks in and wants to join. I don't remember the rest. But it reminds me to tell you that I am fucking psyched we are done with poetry and we are going to start writing plays next week. Because that is what my play is going to be about.

Me: (HUH?)

D: Yeah, except I am going to make you the woman. Won't that be hot when we act that out?

Me: Wow, I cannot express my level of pleasure that we are in WRITING class, not a filmmaking class. Because I am not acting shit out for your oedipal fantasy indulgence.

D: Oh shit. I didn't think of that. Hmmm. Hey, wanna go outside and smoke up with me?

Me: No.

D: Wanna hang outside while I do?

Me: No.

D: Wanna come to an acid party with me tonight?

Me: Still definitively no.

(15 minute break later)

Ducky returns trailing a sheet of smoke in the door.

D: So I had this dream...

Me: Hush yourself.

D: About my mom and dad...

Me: (Hand gesturing) Hush.Zipit.Quiet.Stoptalking.Iputalockonyourmouth.

D blinks, procures from his bag the biggest, darkest shades I have ever seen a human being wear -- they cover up every ounce of face but nose tip and lips -- then he puts them on and falls asleep behind them. A soft, quiet breathing. Thus making the 2nd half of class quite pleasant, although school remains overall brain-killingly dull.