The World is a Less Safe Place to Drive In.
I got my license.
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I wrote this story for my writing workshop class. You can tell I didn't have a good day.
I arrived to the pit before the sun rose. It was cold and wet outside; the slush oozed from beneath my feet like stepping on a bug. Through the doors I entered. I took a left, my eyes squinting. The walls were white, the floors were white, the ceiling was white- and the lights were bright. I trudged up some stairs, each step more painful than the last. The garbage bag on my back seemed heavier each stair. After another white-washed hallway I arrived to my little personal blue box. The blue box was a small rectangular garbage can-like enclosure with a small lock on the front. After fumbling with the security lock, I managed to open the rusty door with a creak and proceeded to dump my garbage in. Another day has begun! I want to go home.
Instinctively I worked my way through several more blinding mazes until I reached this certain room- if one asks where it is, you know where it is in your mind, but can not explain it. I entered the room through a slit in the wall, single file with other pale, soulless entities to the front and back. This room was cold
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