I dislike most people. It's in my nature to judge everyone. It's just how I function.
But there is no one I dislike more than an English major.
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Sometimes, out of spite, I buy self-published books of classmates on Amazon to give them horrendous reviews. Yeah, I'm that barbaric.
I just don't like them.
They are pretentious, snarky aliens from the galaxial planet Snupegantu.
That being said, I'm one of them. An English major. Not a pretentious, snarky alien from the planet Snupegantu.
I know my worth. It's pretty low. I don't have a problem with highly regarding oneself - it's the unfolding of a lawn chair on top of the pedestal that infuriates me.
These people would literally kill to see Shakespeare rise from the dead. They're infatuated with the guy, while I'm in the corner stroking my chin, wondering why he's so important. Some spend their entire lives studying his work, when, in reality, it probably took him around a year or so to write a play. It just doesn't add up for me.
Criticizing literature is key to understanding the art of the English language. I get that. But what bugs me is the fact that we beat the horse to a point that literature is no longer entertainment. It's not fun anymore; it's work. Simply, to put it lightly, diluted crap. Yeah, get that image in your brain.
Regardless.
When I started my career at Wright State, I came in as a Mass Communication major, thinking I would land a job at a local television station. Come to find out, you actually have to speak in order to succeed in that field. So, I was constantly bombarded with the same question.
Oh, well, what can you do with that?
I was so fed up with hearing it, I switched to English.
Oh, well, what can you do with that? Teach?
It was a step up, I guess.
Lately, I've been wondering if this is truly the right place for me. But seeing as though I'll be graduating in a little over a month, I fear it might be too late. If I complete my three, twelve-page papers within the next few weeks and finish my poetry portfolio in time, I'll leave Wright State with a Bachelor's in English with a creative writing focus and no fucking clue what to do.
But maybe that's for the best.
I've spent sixteen of the past twenty-one years in school; my life, up until this point, should be labeled "precious time misappropriated." Never do I actually remember a February that I didn't have class. But this next year will be different. I'm going to do what I want to do for once. No syllabuses or nerve-twisting presentations. No professors or emails that aren't responded to. No term papers or brain-frying, imagination-disintegrating assignments that singe my creative skill to a nub. I'm going to write what I want to write.
I'll finish that TV spec script I've been working on for four years. Perhaps I'll improve my piano skills so I can write actual music outside the realm of three chords for my porno musical. Maybe I'll take a nap. Who knows? That could be fun.
All I want is some time to myself. I've had this great fantasy of driving across the country in a Volkaswagen Westfalia, but, unfortunately, my dad sold the baby blue and white one I had back in high school. The greatest thing for attention, seriously. Couldn't have been luckier to have as my first car. But just because I don't have a van doesn't mean I can't explore.
I'm not sure what's going to happen, and I think I'm okay with that. I do know that I'm never going to stop until my last breath, I imagine many years from now.
"Hoping to cease not till death."
Hey, who says an atypical English major can't enjoy a little Walt Whitman?
As far as the other English majors go, I hope for the best. Really, I do. If you're going to teach, more power to you. You have more will-power than I. If you're a writer like me, it may take some struggling to get where we plan to be. And that's okay. No one ever said it was going to be easy. Just keep doing what you're doing. Write what you want to write and maybe you'll get an opportunity to share it with others.
But if you self-publish, I swear to everything that is holy you will encounter the worst review of your life.
