Human Emotion: Frustration

Dear Diary,

I hate being an English Major. Half of my classes are too easy that they're boring, and the other half loads me with piles of reading and writing assignments, so much that I feel I'm about to denounce Shakespeare as a raving lunatic and land myself in a cushy county jail equipped with a TV in my cell, a gym, and a reading lounge. No bills and assignments for me!

Now, if my professors could realize that their class isn't the only class I have, then we would be getting somewhere. I would be reading the things I want to read, not the things I have to read, and through misunderstandings and social grievances, we would arrive at a very Austin-esque happy ending. But no, everything has to be so so with those English Professors. Not one of them thinks alike individually, but in assigning homework they all follow the same code, unwritten and unproclaimed, but the same none the less. Give them enough so that they can understand the concept!

Now I don't know about you, diary, but understanding something doesn't get any easier if I have so many things to read my eyes bleed. All I do is read the words but don't have time to read for meaning, the underlying message, heck, sometimes I don't even have time to finish reading! Like today, for instance, I thought a few readings for my Creative Nonfiction class would be easy, only three pieces. I could get that done in an hour and a half. No. I couldn't. Apparently I don't read as fast as everyone else, and I barely got through the second one before I had to pack my shit up and leave for my class. Then, I don't have enough time to print off my literary journalism piece, so the hour I committed to writing that was wasted. I still emailed it to him, mind, but I won't get any credit, even if it's a measly ten points.

You see, diary? What's the use of doing these writing assignments when they A) cost only ten points, and B) are a waste of time when in the long run I'll probably be late to class, forget to print it out, and have to hear my professor say, "Unfortunately, I can't except late work."

There's a screwed up sense of priorities and logic when one enters the literary realm. Creativity is important, they say, but only if you can turn it in on time. When you're sick, you should stay home, but attending class is important enough that we'll denote your grade a half-letter every absence over the allotted three. We love you, we hate you. Your works good, but it needs a little improvement.

Creative Nonfiction...I think someone said that all that creative nonfiction amounts to is the ability to tell a really good lie, good enough to be belived. But maybe that was me.