On the way back from Bay City last weekend, I saw a sign in someone’s yard that read “Divorce Sale”. Although I was by myself, I read it again out loud and cracked up. Who does that?
I hate criticism. My creative professor gave me a B+ for my poem “Hillcroft”, but it’s not so much the letter grade that bothers me, it’s the way in which he worded his comments. When speaking of the last four lines of my poem he writes, “Not to sound harsh, but none of these lines are particularly luminous, and then they get more or less repeated which nails the coffin, so to speak.” I actually cried when I first read this. I was crushed and outraged. After printing out the email, I read over it again and then crumbled it up and tossed it in the corner of the room only to pick it up an hour later, fold it, and stick it in my journal. I’m over it now, but I’d still like to know what his credentials are. It’s safe to say that I won’t be making an “A” in this class, but who cares anyway? I’ve never had a 4.0, and I haven’t made the Dean’s List since my first semester, but screw the dean, he’s not on my side. Graduation is right around the corner, and as my internship proves to me how green I really am, I dread the day when financial aid no longer supports me. I don’t want to be a part of the real world, but I have no choice – student loans are piling up along with outstanding bills. Two more months.