Chapter 3 three

3 The office was as silent as in a school recitation class.As you know, there are some major courses in schools that have recitations, and students are circled in the classroom to do exercises-for me, this course is called "Four Mechanics", a kind of nondescript hodgepodge.The teacher is not yet qualified to teach such important courses, but she always comes to the recitation class and sits at the door to play the role of the jailer-sitting there shaking her head and dozing off.I also came to the recitation class, put my warm big hands on my face, looked at her intently, and found that she was shaking very rhythmically.From time to time, a classmate came to her to hand in homework. At this time, she woke up, smiled and said: Finished?Thank you.The class cannot end until most of the students have finished the exercises.So she would like to thank everyone who turned in homework, but I was not always among them.I don't hand in homework in every class, and the recitation scores are always zero... The teacher plays the role of the head of the office in the recitation class.

The boss is not in class now, but my staff still come to trouble me.Unfortunately, now I am the head of the office myself, although I am still someone else's subordinate in the company.It is said that the boss should teach his subordinates how to write, but in fact this is far from the case.No one can teach someone to write, and I can't teach someone to write—but I can't refuse to review someone else's manuscript.They delivered the manuscript to my desk and left.After half an hour, or an hour, I picked up the manuscript, read the first line of the first page, read the last line of the last page, and signed my name.Some people, with a certain degree of agitation, will call my attention to a certain paragraph on a certain page when they send a manuscript. I will remember this, although when he (or she) talks, I am like a dead person. My expression was dull and my eyes were slack, but I was still listening.After half an hour or an hour, in addition to looking at the first line and the last line, I will turn to that page and look carefully at that paragraph.When I'm done reading, sometimes I put the manuscript on the table, reach out and grab a red pencil, circle that paragraph, and put a big red cross on it—I shot the manuscript, as you know.When shooting the manuscript, I was not looking at the manuscript paper, but staring at the writer intently. The face of the shot person was flushed, his eyes became watery, and he lowered his head suppressing the excitement in his heart.If the person is a woman, and her hair is braided, the redness of the scalp can be seen along the hair--this is the situation of shooting.After being killed, the tone of speech will change, and the drawer will continue to be pulled.Obviously, everyone wants to be shot, but I can't shoot everyone.When I was not shooting, I silently gathered the manuscript, tied it with a rubber band, and took the manuscript reading sign to sign it, without lifting my head from the beginning to the end.But the writer stood up viciously, jingled the tables and chairs, and when he walked past me, he pretended to have no intention of stomping on my feet with the heel of his high-heeled shoes, and walked out.No matter how hard you try, the result is the same.I wouldn't complain of pain, even if my whole toenail was trampled off - that's always the case with depressed people.

When I wrote "Teacher-Student Love", I was very excited-this is the meaning of writing.Now it bores me.I'd rather be let down from a stone wall with a dry mouth and a mouth full of grit, and thrown into a wooden sink.It was not a good bath: around the sink camels were drinking.I landed among them, splashing, which caused them to retreat momentarily, and then to come up again, sticking their head down the side of my head and under my crotch, for a drink.Those between the four square wooden walls were filled with murky, scalding water.But I had no choice but to drink the water, which smelled of sheep urine—the sides of the pool were tarred, which made the water smell even worse.On the stone steps in the distance, the teacher raised her face, her snow-white chin was pointed, and she looked at me calmly—her eyes were purple.She stretched out her hand from the sleeve of her gown and made a firm gesture, and the black slaves dragged me out again, brought me back to the classroom, pressed me on the futon, and continued the thermodynamics lesson interrupted by sleepiness—although Stories like this are bound to be shot, but I firmly believe that Cleopatra once explained thermodynamics to an Oriental and convinced him that the world of the future would be made of silver.

I'm sitting at the door of the office, which is where the boss is.As you know, no one likes this position... The opposite wall is a window, and this window leads to the zenith, and the tall building opposite is brought in, and the mist is also brought in.The light from the sky came down from the roof of the opposite building, and shone on the mist through the slit in the middle of the building.There is such a house: its roof is divided into two halves, one half is higher than the other half, leaving a skylight in the middle.The skylight penetrates from here, shining on the misty mist-this is a bathroom.The teacher chained me not outside, but to the smooth marble wall in the bathroom.I stood with my legs apart—it was tiring standing like that.My thighs are sore and sore after standing for a long time.So, I often fell forward, hanging on my tethered arms, my whole body was like a bulging sail, and my shoulders hurt like they were about to dislocate.I waited until the pain was unbearable, and I stood up again.After all, it's always a change.The teacher sat in the bath under the opposite wall, in the shifting light.From time to time she would stick her feet out of the water and kick the warm water poured into the pool from the mouth of the beast's head on the wall.Whenever she looked at me, I straightened up, pressed my body against the wall, and looked up at the zenith, from where the mist rose and was blown away by the wind.She crawled out of the water and walked towards me. At this time, I tightly closed my eyes... Later, a small hand pinched my chin, moved it back and forth, and said: What are you thinking about?I also said nothing.To her, I was forever an "X" written on the wall. X is a sex symbol.I am this symbol, stretching desperately in pain... But if there is a new story, even as a symbol in it, I should be satisfied.