Thursday, December 6, 2012

I was NOT overreacting.

Last week, my English instructor offered our class some extra credit.

Go to a poetry reading, she said.

It will be fun, she said.

All I heard was, I want you to go out and participate in something that is detrimental to your mental health. And after that, if there's anything left in there, I want to to relive the horrifying experience by writing a brief summary of what the reading entailed. Before you inevitably kill yourself because we all know that poets are drunks who encourage devil work.

I went. I wrote.

BTW, I was the ONLY PERSON from my class to attend. Thanks, jerks.

Today, we were in class reviewing for our final and all was normal, only the instructor seemed to be making a lot of eye contact with me. Especially when we were covering sattire.

You that face you make when someone keeps looking at you and you can't figure out why? You kind of wrinkle your nose and scrunch your face? Yeah. That was me.

Then it was time for her to pass back quizzes. And summaries. Of poetry readings.

She walked down my row and held out my summary. I reached out to take it from her, but she didn't let go.

I looked up at her face, both of us holding on to the paper. Her expression was unreadable as I gave the paper a little tug. She held on to it for a second, then let go. I looked at the front of the paper.

See me after class was scrawled on a sticky note.

SHIT.

I shoved the paper in my bag and slouched down in my seat. I spent the remainder of the class feeling like I was going to die.

I do not like being in trouble. It really bothers me when I feel like someone has a poor opinion of me based on something I said or did that seemed funny at the time. It's called Comic Regret and I have an acute case.

Class ended. I gathered my things and trudged to the front of the class as though I was approaching the gallows of doom.

The teacher was waiting for me, leaning against the podium.

Teacher: Emily.

Me: Helllllo.

Teacher: I've never had a student turn in anything like that before.

Immediately, I was defensive. Um, excuse me, but it wasn't THAT BAD. In my head, of course. I can be a tad non-confrontational.

Me: Oh.

Teacher: Did you read my comments?

Me: Um. No.

Teacher: I suggest that you do. See you next week.

AND SHE LEFT.

Actually, she just turned around. I left. Except I ran. Like a little girl.

(I don't know what it wrong with me lately. I think I'm going through menopause, only I'm not, except I can't explain why I feel like a crazy person. I'm not pregnant, so any of you who just thought that are GOING TO HELL).

When I felt like I was far enough from the classroom, I stopped, ripped the paper out of my bag and took a fearful look.


Oh. I see.

She liked it.

Kinda makes my overreaction a little bit ridiculous.

She went on to suggest that if I wrote fiction I should submit something to our award winning school literary magazine (I kind of wasn't paying a lot of attention a few weeks ago when she told the class just which awards the magazine has won).

Bah HA!

Dude, if she only knew.

I'm already terrorizing the internet. I'll save my ridiculous ramblings for this blog, and the real writers can handle the other stuff.

By the way, if you want to read what I wrote, you can see it here. It's really not that bad.

I wanted to make a WHOLE lot of inappropriate comments regarding the Poet's name (Matthew Dickman) and the length of his presentation, but luckily I remembered I'm not in junior high and I saved myself some embarrassment.
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