It was not even funny. Yucky. Trucky. Pucky. Sucky. Bride of Chucky. Not even once had that damn F-word crossed her mind. She shook her head and continued writing. How about a haiku? Nah, too clichè. A rap? A freaking dub-step mix-up? Everyone in class expected her to write a sonnet, Shakespearian or Pethrarchan. Most likely the first as the latter would have had her deviate too much from her regular style. She would never deviate. Lucky number, lucky color, lucky animal and lucky subway sandwich. It all had to be perfect. If tampered with, her luck would be gone. Her imaginary boyfriend, imaginary friends and imaginary clean-bill of health would seize to exist. Oh that would surprise them. How convenient for them it would be if she suddenly wrote an elegy, got an iguana and tattooed "13" on her left shoulder instead of "7" on her right.