Archive for american literature

Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Bott gets an F

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on February 12, 2013 by JC

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,

Miss Bott is probably the worst teacher in the history of teachers. I know that’s ostensibly an incredibly bold statement, but walk with me for a moment.

Exhibit A: she relates ev-ery fuh-cking book she assigns to her divorce. I’m convinced she chooses books based on how easily she can project onto it her experience:  cuckolding her husband, blaming his cool exterior or their divergent interests for it, and thereby—in her mind—justifying it conclusively. She may have chosen The Scarlet Letter under the belief that she was somehow kindred with Hester. I’m inclined to believe that was her belief based on her ardent counterfactual defense of the defamed protagonist—i.e. “she wasn’t an adulterer, but even if she were, I’m sure she’d have had her reasons, and the punishment here, as in the case of every misunderstood lover I know, does not fit the action alleged.” That may be, Miss Bott, but any public humiliation you’ve faced in connection to your “alleged action” has been the doing of your insistence on telling everyone. So, when it comes to The Scarlet Letter, Miss Bott, I cannot grant any gravity or depth to your sense that Nathaniel Hawthorne strummed your pain with his fingers, so to speak.

Exhibit B: I showed her the preceding paragraph and she sucked my dick for it. Yep, cleaned my corn and didn’t even floss.

Last point proving Miss Bott is a contender for worst teacher in the history of teachers: she’s ineffective by all metrics.  Honors level in the suburbs, 470 average SAT Verbal scores, and please do convict because I, present genius, scored a 660 and wrote the saddest blowie in school out of this self-victimizing sack of shit.

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Face to Face (100-word challenge)

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 10, 2013 by JC

On a very cold day even for the mountains—as I begrudgingly but meditatively thithed and threw, thithed and threw the three-foot-high snow from my desired path with my sharp steel shovel—a leopard attacked me from the back and turned me to face him.

I named him Boyoh and when I made eyes with him I knew I was in love. That meant, probably, that I was a little more isolated than I should have been. Any case, it must have been meant to be since Boyoh relented and settled with me, beneath the surface, aiding my survival and life forever.