October 8 2012
They tell me the deadline’s last Tuesday… that Tuesday. I was damned, horrified. I don’t want to disappoint! Not Sir! I like him too much, Though my past papers always did disappoint. I always cram my papers. Ugh. Anyway. I rush to make a story. I’ve never written a story. Fiction. What the hell do I write about? I figured religion. It’s old news, but hell, it never ends. I ask myself, how do I show how good it is and how fucked up it is at the same time? I mean, I’m an agnostic… maybe puts me to better perspective, well at least more objective. I sat for hours at Boston, wriggling on my seat, fidgeting, what the fuck do I write about? Fuck. I’m not a fucking writer!
I try not to dwell into that too much. I never really wrote anything. But hell. THIS is required.
That process I went through was so mediocre. Since I’ve been bombarded with LGBT issues these past few weeks, well why not write about that? And what perfect way to show that but with priests! So I read erotic stories online and gather them with some of a few friends’ experiences.
spontaneously I tell myself, I want to write a telephone conversation. So that’s what I do.
I read about this ebook and this paper about catechism on masturbation. So I think what I can pull out from there.
And I speedily type whatever comes to mind, under the premise that my piece would only be for Sir’s eyes. And he’d discard it right away, burn it even. Because it turned out to be fucking shit. I passed it on time in his pigeon hole. I went home, read a book and saw ‘handkerchief’. FUCK. I spelled handkerchief wrong. ‘hanker chief’. FUCK. And I’m supposed to be a college student! THE FUCK! It was mentioned exactly 7 times. And the grammar’s just the surface… because hell it was shit! I wasn’t able to show the plot or the problem or whatever. It was a clattered fucking ugly piece of shit.
Okay I’ve already established that it was a fucking piece of ugly, fugly, humiliating, disconcerting shit. But something else’s more horrifying than that.
I met three of my friends down the grove [road], two of them my classmates in ENG101. The routine was, sir gives us readings, we read at home, we discuss in class… thoroughly. So I ask what we were taking up for our make-up classes. They say our works will be workshopped. I didn’t understand really. So I negected. I walked home with one of them. I asked about our critical film review and the conversation led to the workshop. She said our works we’re going to be workshopped, then continues, a friend’s was there, another friend’s was there, didn’t I go to RMS [where we get our readings] ? I couldn’t comprehend. She asked me what the title of my work was after I told her how shitty my work was. Father John whatever. She said, yeah, it’s there. Father John and Father Peter?
I fucking laugh. Then it dawned on me. And I can fucking see my face falling. Fuck. Seriously?! SHIT! I’ve never sworn so deliberately in an entry. Hell. WHAT COULD SIR BE THINKING! He’s fucking out of his mind! I never knew that was how the workshopped worked! Hell! I thought we were only going to consult him for the piece itself. Who would’ve fucking knew we were going to discuss in class? I don’t care how he picked it. I’d carelessly think he didn’t even read mine! He just picked out randomly! HELL. Who cares! FUCK. It’s in RMS. Around 20 people will have them photocopied, and I justwant to bury myself in coffee buns and Dilmah tea! To my dismay, I went to RMS and I fucking couldn’t believe.
It’s been more than 10 hours now. I still can’t get over it. And around two hours ago, I heard Sir himself greeting me. WHAT! He’s at Boston? Hell I was reeling. My goodness. I could hear them talking about the pieces. Eavesdropping mode. HELL! I didn’t hear my work. So they must have gone through that already. But fuck.
I’m fucking terrified. 4 hours til class. And I’m still up. UGH. I hope all goes well. But fuck. I am perfect disarray.