I'm staring at her tits as she's talking to the English instructor (the same individual who taught English 156). She's obviously proud of them, letting them bulge behind a short, white t-shirt. Sex that might be for sale, depending on the bidder.
Does anyone of us ever really know the extent and severity of our sexual prowess?
Out of all people, I shouldn't judge what someone else wears. After all, I used to dress up and play stripper--back when I was younger and thinner--oh! A long time ago!
Sometime during the same class period, the English instructor walks over to the desk I'm temporarily occupying (because we've been forced into groups for peer review of our essays, and I had to blindly join a preordained few female students, together already discussing glumly and humbly their works of art), and he places my essay next to me. I don't read his remarks, only notice the frequency of them--and my precious lines that he's crossed out.
All of the sudden I'm flooded with a mixture of anger, despair, and embarrassment. After all, I have to write the best essay--I have to top those eighteen year olds in some aspect in life even if I can no longer have their tight thighs and wary waists! I spend hours doing research on marketing strategies because I had no background in the subject. I then spent hours writing the fucking essay. For a mere ten points. I slide between desks and walk toward him. "Is there anything about this essay you liked or maybe I should just start over?" I can't tell if this is my attempt at humor.
I end up arguing with him, which is something you never want to do with a professor if it's over an assignment. Professors make up the rules, and you, in varying states of glee, are supposed to follow them for the sake of everyone getting along in this caste system and for, of course, the reward at the end--the grade.
I care about a lot of things. I care about my relationship with the English instructor, which is why I sent him an email same day, apologizing for my behavior.
"I want more of your voice," he said to me about my paper, not a harsh criticism. More like a gentle push in the right direction.
But what I possibly care more about is not sounding like an idiot, typing away on a subject I don't know, and in my own ignorance not even noticing my literary limitations. That is embarrassing. I have to become a quick expert on the subject of intimate apparel, and write a commanding essay.
I value an intelligent analysis over even the grade.
I have no deep or profound thoughts about Victoria's Secret's marketing and packaging, which is why I read other people's points of view and opinions. Then I started into a textbook on marketing so I could understand why Victoria's Secret did the tricks they did and how that affects profitability. All of this takes research. By myself, I only have so much to say about walking through a VS store. Yes, they use skinny models, yes they play pop music in the background, yes, they hire employees who wear heavy make up, and that's about it. Nothing interest or profound, and then, at worst, I write a paper that sounds just like the rest.
Can't you see my bitter agony?
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