It’s summertime. Do you know what summertime means for an educator like myself? If I'm lucky, it means I get to experience the great outdoors for a few weeks and drink ridiculous amounts of wine and lay in the sun for hours enjoying a world with people who sit up straight, who don't mouth breathe all over me, who do things in a timely manner and who have sex rather than giggle about it. It means I get to watch the complete series of The Wire without any fucking half-assed distractions. Shit is getting intense up in Baltimore and my television NEEDS me today.
If I'm unlucky, I get dragged by my bleeding toenails back to summer session to put up with all the bored flunkees and the annoying overachievers mixed into one giant hell of braces, baggy pants and jolly ranchers. And that brings us to today. Look, there are beers to be drunk, tanning oil to be rubbed on me, pages to be turned with sand filled fingers and blissful naps to be had. I need to know if Avon is gonna find out the shit that Stringer pulled like I need food. I need to show up here, give you some condensed learning, give out a flaming finger or two, or an IFLY for being so goddamn clever and get the hell out of here and get back to my cooler and my janitor twined to a pine tree, you read me?
I am not in the mood for something in between. I don't need to be distracted with brain-sucking ambivalence right now. It's painful.
I’m not in the mood for someone full of potential to time and time again fail to engage me. Lazy, really fucking lazy, well I expected that; but at the same time likeable? I don’t know what to do with that. Not in summer session, I don’t. I don’t want to straddle things I want to read and things that make me so bored I want to start forest fires. I don’t want to read posts that start off good but then lose rhythm or finish with a paintball to the face of MEH. I don’t want to read something almost lovely and then read something that sounds like the tender scribbles of a pretentious tenth grader. I don’t want to read something so utterly satisfying and telling because it intimately acquaints the reader with the writer's person and culture to then read posts with titles like "A rather nice stew" or "What I did last weekend".
I don’t want to be teased with developed descriptive abilities to then be rioted and looted by exclamation points. Which, let me tell you all a little something about the exclamation point, in case you didn’t gather it last time: she’s a cheap fucking whore. She’s disgustingly easy and she’ll hump you behind a dumpster, but if you are looking for long lasting emotional depth, she’s out. She’s off giving tail to any other sentence with the same easy, predictable, stupid climax.
Chicu, I like you. I like what you stand for and I love how you see beauty in the darndest places. But please stop making me ask myself why the shit I'm reading your blog instead of playing Adam and Eve and stuffing my face with s'mores right now. Quit writing so your friends and family know what you're up to and start writing for YOU.
For dragging me out of my summer bliss to read something I don't know how I feel about, I give you a blank emotionless stare, twinkling with indifference.
For being genuinely likeable with some actual talent, you get a couple of stars.