It just happened one day. Probably, on a Tuesday: Gian De Furia was sitting in the classroom listening to the professor explain the difference between an executive order and a law, when it hit him. What's the point in all of this, he wondered. His grip on the gel pen went limp and he stopped taking notes.
When the class was over he went to the men's room to splash water on his face. Staring at himself in the mirror he told his reflection, "You ain't got the face of a lawyer. Lawyers got it together. Look at you!" He was wearing torn blue jeans, old duct-taped Converse sneakers, and a Nirvana t-shirt under a fuzzy olive drab cardigan. His dark hair was long and his face covered in stubble. "You look like a freak."
He reached for his pack of cigarettes.
"Can't you read?" said the janitor, pointing at a sign. "No smoking in the bathrooms. Take it outside."
"Sure," said Gian, the cigarette hanging from his lips. He stepped outside, took out a Zippo lighter, and smoked. As he walked towards the parking lot all he could hear was the chatter of students worried about the midterm exams. His mind was elsewhere.
At the parking lot he opened the door to his car and threw his books in the back seat. Then he wished he could pour gasoline over them and himself, and set everything on fire.
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