I hate English essays
6 April 2009, 7:56 pm
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yearI hate English essays. Generally the books we have read in English this year have inspired deep thoughts about moral issues and personal feelings. When it comes to the book we have recently finished, especially, I find myself wanting to keep my private thoughts to myself, instead of spreading them around on paper or demeaning the book by having to bullshit some fake ideas in order to churn out a decent essay. I want to savor the thoughts and feelings the literature inspires, rather than mush the subject around until it’s no longer appealing or thought-provoking.
Therefore, I hate English essays.
And, I guess
26 January 2009, 11:13 pm
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wrongI suppose it was just a speculation of mine. You know, a thought. A random inconvenient fantastical idea, that floated in from nowhere. I wouldn’t sound so dramatic, but I’m practicing my writing for the stupid English Regents tomorrow.
But simply put, that means: I guess I just got my hopes up.
It wasn’t a big deal, realizing that, oh-hey, there goes a possibiolity of a fun time. Of course, nothing is really a big deal when it comes to me and guys. I don’t have big deals, or drama. I don’t get upset. It’s “whatever” and “it doesn’t matter” and “who will I take an interest in next?”
Right. Okay, so, who will it be.
I don’t want to think about that right now. I don’t really want to dwell on my failure as a girl, my failure at attractiveness, at witty repartee. I don’t ever like to sit and nurse a wound that will heal easily and soon.
But I don’t want to fail to notice my own sad attempts at femininity. The long blonde hair really does nothing for me, nor do the blue eyes, obscenely long lashes, curvy frame or even smile. Maybe it’s the laugh that turns them off, maybe my cheerfulness is just too obnoxious to behold for any length of time. Maybe the flirting was just that.
Sure. I can deal with that. I won’t think any more on the fact that I’m completely undesirable, too outspoken for my own good, and when the time is right to comment, I refrain. I refuse to pause any longer over my inadequacies as a determined but unsuccessful interested party.
So what if my laugh is too loud, my comments too sharp? So what if I say the wrong thing once or twice, or I’m less appealing than she is?
If I’m too big, I’m too big.
If I’m too smart, I’m too smart.
If I’m only a focus of amusement and flirtation, then I’d do better to focus my own attentions elsewhere.
But this could have been my chance. I let myself believe that, hey, this could be the rebound I’ve been searching for. The connection that pulled me out of ex-infested waters and into a lifeboat built with lighthearted gaiety and a less depressing spirit.
But it’s no big deal. I’ll get over it.
If I’m too romantic and hopeful, I’ve just got to suck it up.
Kick Drum Heart 