He's a major in Writing but he hates to read. Can you believe that? I can't, and I told him so once.
"So you're saying I can't write?" he asked all defensively.
"No, that's not what I said," I tried explaining. "I'm saying it doesn't make sense. What are you gonna write if you haven't read anything?"
"Look." He was always saying that, "Look," like he had something to show you that you weren't getting. It drove me crazy. "I'm just gonna pretend like you never said any of that stuff, okay?"
"No, look," I said, "I did say it and I don't take it back. You have to know something if you want to say anything."
"So you're saying I don't know anything?" He was always doing that, telling you what said.
"No, but you can't be averse to knowing things."
He stopped fixing his bed and gave me this cold stare. "You're really asking for it. Why don't you go to sleep, yeah? I think you need some sleep."
"I don't need sleep. I'm just saying what I've always thought. I mean, the only reason you're here is 'cause your parents basically bought your way in—"
I don't know what happened exactly, but when I opened my eyes again, I was flat on my back and looking up at the ceiling.
It was my mother--God, I love that woman, but she's always calling me when I least want her to--
I didn't know. I was interested in the material, that wasn't it. I just never studied.