The setting: a 70 person lecture room. My prof, a rambling east-coast CanLit lover, rambles about being from the east coast and CanLit. Forest Green Tee sits beside me, he is restless and fidgeting in his squeaky chair.
My internal dialogue is as follows:
I am a second year student. In Honours Creative fucking Writing. These shits are first year. Ok, don't be mean, you were a first year last year. They're probably all really kind and judicious people... I took all fucking 300-level classes last year, this shit is not for me. The point of an intro is that it happens before the real stuff. I have done the real stuff, I do not need this 200-level bullshit. I am a brilliant fucking writer. I am the fucking Dickens of my generation.
Interruption: A greasy haired goon wearing some sort of grunge-rock T-shirt begins two-centsing.
I'm sorry, who the fuck are you? I did not pay my weight in loonies to take this class and hear you talk. Its the first class. What even is there to talk about. You're not even talking about the syllabus or anything related to the course, you're talking about your favourite dead author. Shut up. Shut the fuck up you first year idiot. University is not your own personal therapy session. I don't care about your life. Can't you feel the collective "shut the fuck up" that each student in this room is screaming at you in their minds? I've read books in my life, but you don't see me defending them all right here and now as serious literary additions to the canon.
Interruption: My rambly professor begins to disagree with the grungy student in an equally as long winded manner.
Thank you sir. Oh wait... no... now you're going to just talk about random shit too. This is like a prime example of the pot calling the kettle black, thats what this is. Know why I am here? First and foremost because I need this credit for my degree; believe me if I didn't I would already have jumped out of a window. And thats saying something because there aren't any windows in this room. Who knows how much wall I'd have to launch myself through before I began to free fall through the air. Aside from that though, I'm here to hear about the syllabus. What have we actually talked about on the syllabus? Absolutely nothing. I could just go. I could just fucking leave. That would be cool.
Epilogue: I didn't leave. We used all the time in class, our prof never talked about anything on the syllabus.
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