the never-ending story

(continued from..)

she entered class as gingerly as she could, hanging on to the door handle and then slipping it noiselessly into place. her heels however clattered mightily as she sauntered to her chair without so much as a look at the fearless figures scattered about the room. she felt the stares down to her last bone. 'they will NOT chill me' she thought as she felt chills spreading from her chest. 'no wonder everyone thinks it's the heart. feelings. they start behind your chest and expand to chill you from your very core.' another thought.
there was definitely boredom floating in the air. mr. mansfield was bored and ate the tips of his (cool) sunglasses while he spoke about how shakespeare is overrated, really. the plump measly boy by the window was bursting into spurts of snores like a teapot under pressure. the woman whom just yesterday had ventured a smile in her direction, the only smile encountered all day, was absorbed in thought and kept fidgeting, oblivious to all around her. she (our protagonist, so you won't confuse all the she's) noticed a circle of pale skin around the woman's finger, where it had once worn a ring, that now was trying to catch up with the healthy honey-coloured skin around it, straining for the sun.
"tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps at this petty pace from day to day till all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death"
-how could shakespeare be overrated
"out out brief candle"
-and what did this assuming plastic-chewing joke of a teacher know about poetry -
"life is but a walking shadow.." (you know the rest)
-anyway?!
she pulled her facial muscles into the dispassionate mask that she wore most days trying to hide the spark of disgust from her eyes.
-let's see where he's going with this.
mansfield continued his own soliloquey now - 'take marvell and his (at this point he stands taller to boast his cleverness with his body) ma'aaarvellous lines. he (marvell) had a goal, at least. he loved women, he was decadent and he showed it in his poetry. let the public think what they want. he will be appreciated for his words and not for his morals. "and at my back i always hear time's winged chariots hurrying near", he told his virgin mistress so she would (ahem..mansfield pretends he's embarrassed)..spend herself with him.'
'shakespeare...pfff..shakespeare was a depressed son of a b...' (stumbles) 'bbloody fool. prozac would have solved his problems and gotten him la... euh gotten him lots of sincere literary appreciation. instead he was their night out at the movies, and now here we are poring over every goddamn syllable that he wrote while he was drowning his sorrows in booze.'
mansfield pauses for effect and looks about the room, preparing his next shocking statements that would continue to land on deaf, bored ears.
"c'est la decadence" he mouths in french. nothing. nada de nada. noone cared about what he said.
the class, unlike marvell's public, seemed to care more for his morals than for his words.
and mansfield was one immoral son of a b... bloody fool.