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What I sometimes appear to lack in outward liveliness, I more than make up for in my mental and, often consequently, textual style, which has been referred to as "frenetic" and, I think with a subtle tone of sarcasm, "energizing".
If you've ever taken an English class, you know what I'm saying when I talk about writing journals on works of literature for the English teacher, right? You have to read an of course excellent work of literary fiction and hand in x number of journals i.e. one-page responses of course thoughtful and meaningful almost a whole week after you're assigned the book to read. And you don't even bother to panic: you just find the summaries and/or cheatsheets on the Internet and, if you're lucky, find some bloody genius idiot who have posted their English class journals on the very novel you're supposed to read for everyone to delight in and steal. You all know what I'm talking about?
Yeah, well, I'm that student who reads the novel and enjoys it; not only that, but also derives much pleasure--pleasure that at times approaches the sexual--from throwing together a few lengthy and euphoric paragraphs on the quality and beauty and truth and meaning of the selected literature.
There are plenty of us around, although we tend to hide ourselves from those who would demand the use of our brains and pens yet would think it an affront to be asked to pay for such an unbeatable and guaranteed-A service. But I don't think there's one student quite like me, who earns remarks of "Maybe you should slow down your train of thought" and "Your style of writing is very different--very lively and somewhat confusing at times" and "You need to sort out your thoughts before writing them down," to which I voicelessly reply: "But--genius! It is all because I am a genius!" But they always ignore me, but only because they're scared of the eighteen year old who's smarter than they are.
To give an example of my textual energy, what follows is an excerpt from a journal of mine submitted to my very cute male English teacher just last week on the subject of George Eliot's Silas Marner upon the conclusion of the seventeenth chapter:
"Ooh, great potential for excitement, probably events leading up to the no doubt exciting and I wouldn't be surprised tear-inducing climax and finale! My guesses (how I love to guess, even though I'm never right!):
"a) Godfrey has fallen into the stone-pit (I am by the way highly delighted to see that he has turned out much better than I thought he would!) and is brought home near death. He confesses to Nancy the awful sin of his first marriage and the truth about Eppie. Nancy ends up committing suicide/swooning and consequently rapidly losing her health and finally dying, but not before the whole town of Raveloe learns the truth of Godfrey's shame! and when Eppie learns, she commits suicide/swoons, etc. too, and Silas follows suit along with Aaron and possibly Mrs. Winthrop because you just know she's just gagging for it from Silas in an oh so very tragic and also Shakespearean ending! but I do a disgrace to G.E. by voicing untechnically such lewd predicitions, so
"b) Eppie has fallen into the stone-pit, and I can't think of anything good to describe as resulting when the obvious is taken away: Silas is terrified, Godfrey is also terrified, Aaron is also terrified as well, and in fact that whole town of Raveloe is terrified for the sweet, charming, highly desirably, barely legal adopted daughter of the formerly miserly weaver! Is she going to die before I can get a good look at and maybe a touch of those lovely young bouncy tits? is the thought on the mind of every man and woman in the village."
Regardless of the negative comments from the other teachers, the cute male English teacher always gives me top marks, and sometimes, if he especially enjoys my energy, a wild romp over the pile of journals yet unmarked and scattered from its neat stack on his desk after class behind an unlocked door. He murmurs in my ear how my sexy lack of proper structure, the sweaty confusion I inevitably generate in my reader, and my hot incoherency turns him on like nothing else. Those are the only times during which my mental freneticism passes wholly on to the physical.
Laura Joldersma is a genius.