The Abortive Sorrows and Short-Winded Elations of Men
THIS ESSAY IS DIFFICULT...
and I need a good grade, and I used to love English, and I am not motivated to work at all. I am motivated instead to cry or to express righteous anger or to take the bus to school and complain about how much money it costs. It would be nice if my English teacher were less involved in himself and more involved in attempting compassion and benevolence. Physically possible? One cannot tell.
THIS ESSAY IS DIFFICULT...
and I am no longer interested in earning his respect or making him not hate me. Rather, I would like to survive the year. He has already signed me off for AP next year; so long as my grade remains acceptable I can escape unscathed, excluding the fact that my prose has become flowery mush under the influence of his constant application of manure, also known as bullshit. Lovely metaphor, yes? Shall I explore the imagery? But first, of course, he would have to read me the text in a charming Southern accent. Quite compelling, quite unhelpful - nearly so unhelpful as the writing lessons, in which he throws statistics and well-you-shot-yourself-in-the-foot-if-you-did-this at us poor, not really awake 1st perioders.
Alas, Gatsby, I could have enjoyed you so much more! The one day we had a substitute, my notes made more sense than a year's worth of 20-second background. Where does the time go? Spent on uncomfortable sarcasm? Most likely. I hope that one book I've been looking forward to is not ruined as well - I've found all the texts this year rather depressing, mostly because I leave class feeling as if I know nothing. Interesting teaching method.
Twelve weeks left, in which I shall have to work with no goal but to escape 11th grade English.
THIS ESSAY IS DIFFICULT...
and I need a good grade, and I used to love English, and I am not motivated to work at all. I am motivated instead to cry or to express righteous anger or to take the bus to school and complain about how much money it costs. It would be nice if my English teacher were less involved in himself and more involved in attempting compassion and benevolence. Physically possible? One cannot tell.
THIS ESSAY IS DIFFICULT...
and I am no longer interested in earning his respect or making him not hate me. Rather, I would like to survive the year. He has already signed me off for AP next year; so long as my grade remains acceptable I can escape unscathed, excluding the fact that my prose has become flowery mush under the influence of his constant application of manure, also known as bullshit. Lovely metaphor, yes? Shall I explore the imagery? But first, of course, he would have to read me the text in a charming Southern accent. Quite compelling, quite unhelpful - nearly so unhelpful as the writing lessons, in which he throws statistics and well-you-shot-yourself-in-the-foot-if-you-did-this at us poor, not really awake 1st perioders.
Alas, Gatsby, I could have enjoyed you so much more! The one day we had a substitute, my notes made more sense than a year's worth of 20-second background. Where does the time go? Spent on uncomfortable sarcasm? Most likely. I hope that one book I've been looking forward to is not ruined as well - I've found all the texts this year rather depressing, mostly because I leave class feeling as if I know nothing. Interesting teaching method.
Twelve weeks left, in which I shall have to work with no goal but to escape 11th grade English.
THIS ESSAY IS DIFFICULT...