As I said early on in this blog, I've never been good at writing a journal. I think the only other time I did anything near this was for my English 101 class, exactly 1000 years ago. The only reason I did that was because my cranky prof required it. Actually, it was pretty cool. He wanted us to write at least once a day for 5 - 10 minutes. He preferred stream of concious stuff over anything polished or thought out.
Hell, I could do that. It seemed the more insane it was, the more he liked it. That says something about him, I guess. He never told us the purpose of the exercise, he just wanted us to do it.
Here are some snippets, as I remember them:
"My roomate is insane, everything she's brought with her to school is monogrammed. Like anyone would want to take any of that preppy shit. But boy does she love to borrow my slouchy Girbaud ankle pants. She's so freakin' rich, why doesn't she buy her own pair?"
"stacy down the hall is really cool and funny. She has a teddy bear named "wittle bear" how cool. I have my own stuffed animal. His name is Peeg. no, not pig. Peeg. he's French. He wears short pants, a waist coat and a pink velvet jacket. His previous life was spent as a Beatrix Potter character"
Back to the cranky prof.
I like to think of myself as a funny person. Our next assignment was to write a short, humorous essay. Something that we thought could appear in a newspaper column. I was totally stoked for this. Wow, I was funny, I like to write. I could do this. I wrote a short ironic story about the food in the dining hall, I think. Much like the theme Ralphie wrote in "A Christmas Story", my essay was a masterpiece.
Here's a synopsis of the prof's comments: Not remotely funny or even cute. D+
See me after class.
That's all I remember, the rest of the week is a fog. Freshman writing dreams ripped at the seams.
Thanks for tolerating my "not even remotely funny or cute blog". Ya'll are the best.