tasts good to the weak

Life only exists because of drama, without it we'd be... old dead corpses. Well she thought to herself, then looked around the room, looking at all her class mates, she was one of the oldest. She liked to distance herself from the others. Not because she was different but because she knew better. At least after scanning all the adolescence in the class, that is the feeling she kept getting. "Knowing better" he whispered to her "is the perfect example of complete ignorance." They sat close together, really close. There were far to many students in the English class. An Intro to modern Lit 101. The teacher was sold by everyone. Anyone who had had the Prof blew chunks about his curriculum, they said "what a load of knowledge. He'll leave a scare, a wound of truth" He looked at her, all he could see was the back of her head. She was turning away form him. "What?" he asked. She shied away and looked at the prof. Then he scanned the room and saw them, in all they're innocents and ignorance. Some of them knew, some of them pretended, but everyone wanted to submerse themselves in the professors lectures, his speech. "She was an optimist" he stood at the podium at the front of the class and insisted. One of the younger students, a woman, said "how can a suicide be optimistic?" She asked the question right out of left field, she did not even raise her hand. He was expecting that type of questioning, he understood their way, the way they restructure the literature. They try to make it conventional the prof thought to himself. "His suicide is a release, it grants him freedom form what he is inside." he told her, standing, waning, punching his palms against the front end of the podium. He was sweating, they all were, that's what she could see, she knew he was watching her from behind. She felt self conscious, and there was nothing she could do about it. She wanted to turn to him, but felt ashamed because she spilled coffee on her pants and there was a fresh stain.