(Ramdom Impulse)

This is from the day our class sat outside and picked a passerby to write about.



It's fricken hot.  The longer I wander out here, the blonder my mohawk will turn from the sun's violent rays.  This sucks.  It's hard enough to stand out these days, with everyone flipping through the same music television channels and reading the same gossip magazines, studying the same vain celebrities' styles, all in search of looking like "individuals."  Just when I think I've found an identity that hasn't been claimed, I see this black dude, about twenty or so, Ecko-Red messenger bag, Vans to match, and a burnt-orange "frohawk" to top him off.  With a few exceptions, looking at this dude is like placing a mirror infront of my miserable, manufactured image.  "Where's he headed to?" I question out loud.  With my luck, he'll probably show up at the same place i'm headed.  He probably even knows my friends.  My watch reads 2:15.  I've got plenty of time before my three o'clock psych class. Why don't I just follow him?  I don't remember where I was suposed to be going anyways.