But the printed words swim and mix with lovely poetry before my eyes. Am I reading Adler, Procter and Towne or am I reading Byron? What strange hybrid of poetry and communication information am I absorbing?
I press my pencil against the paper, intending to record every minute detail of the text I can think would be key on my exams.
But when the piece of paper is full and I glance over the smudged page to review my labors, I do not find notes of self-concepts and cognitive conservatism.
My page of notes is a page overflowing with endearments, lists of precious qualities I adore in the beloved, exclamations of passion and innocent desires.
I stared at it for a long time with his voice in my ear again, neglecting the dreadful old school work for near an hour.
I'm hopeless.