Personal Narrative- Daydreaming in Class

Personal Narrative- Daydreaming

There I sat, trying desperately not to drool in the middle of my daydream. Dare I say class was less than interesting and all I could think of was my bed? Instead of daydreaming of a hunky man, or even a bright future paved with a golden road of success, I was dreaming of my bed. It was an ordinary college dorm room bed: you never know how many people actually slept in it, or did something else in it, yet I still find comfort in its lumps and bumps. In the brilliance of my afternoon laziness I decided that daydreaming about my bed wasn’t silly at all. In fact I should commemorate my bed with a poem and a little cartoon drawing of it. Unfortunately I had forgotten my notebook so I began to doodle on the prehistoric thing called a desk. Knowing that writing an ode to my wonderful bed on another piece of furniture was loaded with irony, I hesitated commemorating my bed on this horrible, and unworthy desk. Since I was out of paper and out of options I shrugged my shoulders at my hesitations and began my ode to my bed.

Oh endearing friend of mine

Soft, sweet and truly divine.

Only I understand your charm

Stay with me always and I’ll keep you from harm.

Okay, so this wasn’t a Shakespearian sonnet, but I found it worthy at the time of this creaky and uncommonly hard, desk. This poem was followed by several crude drawings of my bed. Then I found myself enthralled with the words etched into the wooden canvas before me. Being a college desk, there were the token swear words and brilliantly crafted phrases such as “Bobby Joe was here.” The etchings I found of interest weren’t even etched in; they were merely drawn with pencil. What a daring move for the author to make. Someone could easily ...

... middle of paper ...

... forget to divert your eyes from the professor. Once you make eye contact the spell is broken and he will call on you...

What on earth could that mean? I glanced quickly up at my professor only to catch his eye. “Ah, I see one of you is still alive!” he said maliciously, “Can you tell those of us who are still awake what Byron meant when he said ‘She walks in beauty, like the night. Of Cloudless climes and starry nights...?” Oh no I had broken the spell! Now I understood what the prophet of the desk had meant. I mumbled some nonsense about an unrequited love, which seemed to satisfy my professor. He seemed to think he had reached his quota of in-class discussion with my comment, so he went on talking to himself, completely self absorbed. In my desperation to find the safety of a daydream yet again I began to scrawl in deep, dark marks on the desk, “LLH was here.”