The paper was passed out and I sat there, staring at it just wishing it would go away. But it wouldn't and as I listened to the vague instructions, "Write about anything that interests you, anything at all!" I wanted to laugh out loud. But I didn't because as I glanced around I saw that everyone else was writing ... almost passionately, about their mother or grandmother or great-grandmother or how their pet cat Skittles ate the pet bird Chloe, or any other things floating around in their mindless minds and I realized I had nothing to write ... And I was proud that my thoughts were too complex to be symbolized in a homicidal cat, that they were too important to be structured to the sentence, "My grandma makes the best gingerbread cookies at Christmas ..."

Thinking on, I decide to refuse to do the assignment; it's pointless anyway. This empty paper is so intimidating, so blank. It would be smaller if it had writing on it, but I have no ideas so I can't fill it anyway. I refuse to do the assignment. NO! I'll use this blank slice of a tree to draw a Snoopy, or ... that girl is done already? I better get moving ... oh no, I forgot. I'm not doing the assignment. I'm too boring to do it. I have no interests. I remember now. Back to drawing. The bell's gonna ring soon. I don't care. I'm not doing the assignment. It's stupid! Who says,"Write about anything that interests you," anyway? Who can do that? She's done too? I don't find her interesting at all. She's not interesting. But she's done. She's done with her paper. So is that girl over there. And her. And her. And ...

As the bell rings I pass in a paper composed of my most honest thoughts ever exposed to the outside world. A week later, it is returned with the comment, "Stream of consciousness was not the assignment, Megan. The assignment was to write about something interesting. F." 1