(no subject)

Latham dissed the scifi class pretty hard, revealing the dark secret that only six of the papers got As. I crept up to him after class, full of the panic. Almost before I said anything, "Yes, Erin, you got an A." Score!

Underpo is a saga of suck. I wrote this very joyful, fairy-tale-like miscarriage/marriage ending poem about a girl who starts by burning her husbands things, decides that their friends and the grocer know they were married, so burns them too, realizes she still remembers they were married and immolates herself, and then is p0wned by a man whittling her smoked bones for furniture, which the ex-husband buys for his new house on the site of their old one. Very Angela Carter, ballad like, a lot of energy. My classmates likes it.

The TEACHER, however: "I want to see this come from a place of more honnesty. What would this poem be if we cut the exaggerations, if it was more genuine? I want more communication with yoooou. What did you honnestly feel about the sittuation?"

Bitch, did I miscarry? Did I divorce someone's ass? NO. The Speaker of the poem =/= the writer, plskthxbye. And furthermore, thanks for writing a different poem for me out of the skeleton of my poem, that was totally thoughful of you, thanks for that, only your idea SUCKS LARGE. It's not the saga of these events as I would really feel them, because a) that's just not every poem ever and b) and not having felt them I'm not qualified to write them in some whelming, deeply honest manner: people who HAVE miscarried et all have done it, and better than I can. It's just fun, you dumb bitch. This is why your poetry sucks hard, Emily Wilson, because you create dense self-referential word salad that I cannot care about (And apparently, neither could the NYTimes. Just saying.).

Finally had phsyciatry appointment, in which Joy Hudson threatened my person if I didn't come back and show her whether the meds were working out. She gave me a new disorder! (Lately I'm afraid of people, crowds, big lectures, going out into social sittuations, so that was a fresh one.) Gotta catch 'em all. I'm working my way down the list. I think I can get anxiety disorders and the body dismorphias, but the OCD may be a bit of a challenge. I can count on that. Maybe I should try to see Dr. Emma Ican'tpronounceit again, from counciling this summer. Big friendly African man? I liked him.

(no subject)

Latham dissed the scifi class pretty hard, revealing the dark secret that only six of the papers got As. I crept up to him after class, full of the panic. Almost before I said anything, "Yes, Erin, you got an A." Score!

Underpo is a saga of suck. I wrote this very joyful, fairy-tale-like miscarriage/marriage ending poem about a girl who starts by burning her husbands things, decides that their friends and the grocer know they were married, so burns them too, realizes she still remembers they were married and immolates herself, and then is p0wned by a man whittling her smoked bones for furniture, which the ex-husband buys for his new house on the site of their old one. Very Angela Carter, ballad like, a lot of energy. My classmates likes it.

The TEACHER, however: "I want to see this come from a place of more honnesty. What would this poem be if we cut the exaggerations, if it was more genuine? I want more communication with yoooou. What did you honnestly feel about the sittuation?"

Bitch, did I miscarry? Did I divorce someone's ass? NO. The Speaker of the poem =/= the writer, plskthxbye. And furthermore, thanks for writing a different poem for me out of the skeleton of my poem, that was totally thoughful of you, thanks for that, only your idea SUCKS LARGE. It's not the saga of these events as I would really feel them, because a) that's just not every poem ever and b) and not having felt them I'm not qualified to write them in some whelming, deeply honest manner: people who HAVE miscarried et all have done it, and better than I can. It's just fun, you dumb bitch. This is why your poetry sucks hard, Emily Wilson, because you create dense self-referential word salad that I cannot care about (And apparently, neither could the NYTimes. Just saying.).

Finally had phsyciatry appointment, in which Joy Hudson threatened my person if I didn't come back and show her whether the meds were working out. She gave me a new disorder! (Lately I'm afraid of people, crowds, big lectures, going out into social sittuations, so that was a fresh one.) Gotta catch 'em all. I'm working my way down the list. I think I can get anxiety disorders and the body dismorphias, but the OCD may be a bit of a challenge. I can count on that. Maybe I should try to see Dr. Emma Ican'tpronounceit again, from counciling this summer. Big friendly African man? I liked him.