Sometime at about 11 o'clock last night I realized I was born to be an English teacher. After three of my closest family members agreed with the Lang teacher that I should be an English major in college ( the same teacher who I thought to be merely manipulating me like some twisted psychological experiment), I suddenly saw all the warning signs I'd been racing by.
For one, I'm a failed novelist. And a failed poet. That has to be some requirement.
Secondly, I'm the go-to girl for essays. Need a re-write? Give the essay to Reg. Afraid of the dreaded "F"? Reg will peer-edit it for you.
But most glaringly of all, I've the love life of an English teacher. Not that love "literary style" would be bad, (hasn't every girl had dreams of her own Mr. Darcy?) but finding it is a problem. The day the world produces a man that doesn't give me the white-eyed look of a bull calf being branded (among other things) every time I mention Orwell's "Politics and the English Language" on a date is the day Sayuri's barn grows wings.
Sure, I've tried "dumbing it down," but it never seems to work. If I'm texted "Hey you, whatcha doin," I'm going to answer truthfully.
For example, my latest victim:
"Whatcha up to?"
"Reading..."
"Whatcha reading?"
"The Beautiful and the Damned by F.Scott Fitzgerald."
I had a faint glimmer of hope. Perhaps he had spark noted the Great Gatsby senior year? Maybe for once we could talk about something other than how mediocre I felt that day?
"Do you like reading?" I sigh. No new talking point.
"No. I'm a member of the anti-fiction league." I felt bad after saying that. Maybe he wouldn't understand the sarcasm. I added "JK!" and ":D" in rapid succession. Two of the more intelligent additions to our conversation.
"Oh...good. I was worried."
I'm doomed. Doomed to an eternity of pedantic novels, bad essays, and men I can't have conversations with.
I don't even particularly like cats.
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