NotARealArtist

Ode to Crappy Spinach A crime against Spinach has been committed today, committed today in the very worst way. Tasteless and limp and soggy and bland, the poor Spinach before me has so been wronged. With its leafy green glory torn away from it by overcooking, under-seasoning, left on the plate to be discarded as scrap. Quite frankly, my friends, this Spinach is crap.

Girl Alan and I sat on our usual bench in the corridor with the arched ceiling that surrounded the courtyard of the public library. It was quiet. Almost eerily quiet. But that was what we liked about it—It was tranquil, isolated from the busy noise of our fellow fourteen year olds, whom we viewed as unworthy of our superior intellects. I looked up from my homework to see what Alan was up to. He was gazing pensively down the corridor. His thick eyebrows were furrowed slightly, and there was a frown line on his forehead. He was thinking. I followed his gaze, but all I saw was half of a sandwich on the ground and a couple in their twenties kis