Death Becomes Me

I didn't post yesterday, you might have noticed. I had a good excuse though: I was fighting for my life. Yes, your humble authoress was nearly the victim of really terrible poetry.

Anyone who has read the Hitchhiker's Guide knows that bad poetry can be deadly, or at least very very torturous. Last night I was reading two sets of 5 poems for my creative writing class. They were by two different classmates and I had to read them because we are workshopping. Of course, because we're workshopping, I had to read them carefully, closely and more than once. It was literally painful.

These two writers could give to Vogons a run for their money. It was worse than blog -poetry, though I wouldn't be surprised if they would put it on their blogs if they had them. It wasn't even poetry, really. It was fresh dog-shit dressed up in broken lines and declared "poem." It was an amaturish attempt to take the clay block and sculpt it; resulting in a "brilliant" exhibit titled Block. It was the poetic equivilant of the awkward acne riddled teenager drooling on his desk while sitting behind the hot, blonde, popular cheerleader. It was the prattle of an inarticulate idiot whose vocabulary is limited to the drivel picked up in kitchens and back alleyways (bad use of ordinary language, is to me, more vulgar than any profanities that you could throw at me).

I'm having way too much fun with my metaphores, it's getting out of control.

On an interesting, and completely unrelated note, I saw HotFedExBoy on campus today. I didn't talk to him because he was on one side of a window and I was on the other. It was odd seeing him though.