"Fuck it," you think, and the words clean your mind like a squeaky wiper washer.

You used to care, back when you didn't know you'll become a Witch. Back then, you cared too much. More than the others.

The fake goth psychopath fuckgirl went schizo, sweet little mommy angel has meltdowns in the bathroom, you lost the ability to care, and Kyubey licked a paw and gave no fucks, not a singular one, not a digit or a half or a quarter- as if to teach you.

You used to care. Now it's hard. Tricky.

Why do we even keep coming to school, anyway, when we could be scaring cats?

Why waste a sane man or woman or alien waste a good minute?

You won't end up an overworked office worker, but you will be leaving with a giggle.

That's what you think as you rest your back on the desk. Right in the middle of class, Cold and comfy.

And you are having such a hard time caring about how everyone in the classroom is staring at you.