Sometimes I wonder if Lit analysis with a class full of English majors is like watching paint dry. It seems to me that there are always a few people in any given class that feel that it is their duty to bore the rest of us fucking senseless with their inane attempts at wit. In truth, all it ends up accomplishing is making them look like a fucktard. Newsflash: sometimes a poem about a red wheelbarrow is just a poem about a red wheelbarrow, not some convoluted attempt at philosophical contemplation about a fucking motive society, or the end of days...
I get tired of people who like to hear themselves talk; write a fucking blog, at least we can choose to ignore it then. In class it's a different story, I can't concentrate on zoning out when your scratchy high-pitched adolescent voice scythes it's way into my inner ear, and imprints itself onto my brain in a vain attempt to somehow gain my approval of the drivel emanating from your face hole. Give it a fucking rest, and sit back and listen; you might learn something from someone who has something to say that's of merit. That is possibly a concept that may be alien to you, but people grow up eventually.
Anyway, now that I feel terrible for sinking to the level of outright contempt for another human, I think I'll sign off.....
Until next time, which if you're keeping track will be a few months....
Frustrated in St. Paul
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