I hate my creative non-fiction class. Why? Because it sucks. The (college) class is run (run?) by a disorganized middle-aged woman who can’t stay on track herself but expects everyone else to pay attention and focus while she rambles on about how she doesn’t like strippers or the newest thing that her daughter said to her last night. Not only is this extra frustrating but she has managed to pick a batch of almost completely terrible books to represent the already under-appreciated genre of Non-Fiction. But oh no, ladies and gentlemen, she doesn’t simply stop with terrible books, she has to give us response questions (I remember doing those in 9th grade…) so that she has some structure in class because she’s not skilled enough to facilitate an intellectual and analytical discussion of a text without elementary guidelines like, “What do you think the theme of this book is,” or “Why do you think she/he used this title?” Wow. I only hope that I can think on that kind of level once I attain my master’s degree.
Sometimes I ponder how I could better spend my time between 1:00 and 2:05 every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and I’ve come up with some pretty good alternatives.
1. Run into a brick wall at crotch height.
2. Assault older women in order to have them hit me with their extremely heavy purses.
3. Have a toothpick eating contest.
4. Acquire as many blisters as possible (on the bottom of my feet) and then pop them all with emery boards.
I’m finishing up this post as my professor(?) is telling us a story about a lesbian murder-mystery and she just said, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this story” before continuing on to this totally enthralling, epically exciting and utterly pointless story. Oh Sweet Jesus.
