Chapter 5
A Tangent Too Far
Arthur's writing veers wildly off course, exploring the philosophical implications of shoelace tying and the existential dread of choosing a pen color.
Arthur Penhaligon stared at the blinking cursor, a digital lighthouse guiding him towards the treacherous shoals of self-expression. The college application essay. A rite of passage, they said. A chance to reveal your true self, they chirped. For Arthur, it felt more like a culinary challenge where the main ingredient was his own mortification. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised to unleash a torrent of adolescent angst and existential musings, or, more likely, a deeply unsettling account of the time he tried to impress a girl by juggling oranges and ended up braining a poodle.
“Right,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble of apprehension. “True self. What is my true self? A walking, talking disaster zone? A connoisseur of awkward silences? The guy who once accidentally sent a selfie to his grandmother instead of his best friend, featuring a questionable mustache he’d drawn on with a Sharpie?”
The Inner Critic, a smirking entity perched on his shoulder, chuckled dryly. Oh, do tell Grandma about the mustache, Arthur. I’m sure the admissions committee will be thrilled to learn about your early artistic endeavors in facial hair alteration.
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