Yes, those years not doing my writing have made me a little angry.
Actually, not the lack of writing, but the "tools" that I have come across on the journey.
It's quite strange to be working in a concentration camp with the most miserable people known to man.
Of course, we have freedom. We have the freedom to do things in a way that fits in with their way. If you don't want to do things their way; I suppose there's the freedom to take the exit door.
That's exactly what I did.
Do I regret it? Fuck, no.
But that was only a couple of weeks ago and I've been busy enjoying my freedom.
Would you like a wacky story instead?
One day, there was a professor. He was so bad; I call that person, the professor of tools.
Three sentences is all that this person deserves, this being one of them.
The end
Ok, I failed to write a wacky story. Let's try again.
Wacky Story Start Again
Title : A Professor of What
What?
How can someone who is such a tool, be a professor?
Failed again.
Written as part of a freewrite
@daily.prompt/19-november-2024-mariannewests-freewrite-writing-prompt-day-2561-professor-of-what
