Too late to drop that class.
I sat displaced in the bloated
classroom, the air fighting its way
into my nostrils, assuming its desperate
quest down to my timid lungs that were
shrunken with self-repression and deflated
by an unbearable awkwardness. My professor
is such an idiot. My retracted
muscles pulled closer to the depth of
my bones, wringing me dry, that diabolical
force—flailing relentlessly at the
panicking words in my throat, cries for help
and salvation, save me from all this frustration,
cries that were meant to be heard. He doesn’t even teach!
I was quarantined, made to exist in this nameless
dimension, my own designated area, suffering
alone in a pool of stale discussions and irresponsibility,
and I was lost in the intensity of their breaths,
their silence, some forty three other students
whose names I did not know and would probably
never know, and I was lost, in a morally
deformed labyrinth, compelled to tread on thorny roads,
followed by an abhorrent demon lord whipping
my bare back with that disgustingly innocent
smile of his. I was dying for an echo,
a resonance, a possible improvement, but I rued,
for reaping up what I sewed. For taking this
stupid class taught by an incompetent professor
who can’t even summarize an academic article
for the love of God and asks the most
utterly retarded questions ever which
totally ruins his status as a teacher at a
prestigious university. How did he get hired anyway?
End of poetic rant.
This is my professor who assigns a bunch of hardcore reading to us and expects to come to class, having them all read, to discuss about them, while he walks around with zero teaching, zero input, and I am pretty sure he secretly blames the class for being dead if we, at times, do not talk as much as he wants. Oh come on. This is a UNIVERSITY class. And you dare call yourself a teacher.