Rhetorical Mode

Narration

 I unwillingly sit in an uncomfortable, overly-squeaky computer chair and flick open my mom’s laptop grudgingly. The internet taunts me as the light blue loading bar gets bigger by fractions of millimeters and stalls. Over. And Over. Thirty minutes pass as I try coaxing it into cooperation. I think about the eight supersite activities, three newspaper articles, ten bookwork problems, and sheet of verb conjugations that I still have to do, all for stupid Spanish 4, and I want to cry with irritation. My heartbeat quickens angrily and my blood turns to liquid steel. I want to hurt something. My skin crawls with invisible irritation and I itch savagely everywhere leaving angry steaks of pink across my pale flesh. The inability to get my work done with the knowledge of homework hanging over my head is a terrible feeling.