|(8) The winter days are over ohhh (8) and I'm working under tha sunshine!|
This week's task was to write about a process. The process of drinking an espresso, the process of cooking risotto, or, my personal favorite of this week's products, the process of taking off one's bra. (I KNOW RIGHT! And it was superbly written.)
But this week I've been rather disperse. I fought with my Mom, I fought with my Math teacher, and I fought with this dude who plays the guitar, has a British accent, and likes the Arctic Monkeys. (Okay fine, it's me who's been in the fighty mood.)
The process I wrote about was one I had in mind for a long time. However, I had originally started it in English, so the first part was to be translated. And then it was hard. I had the story perfectly made up in my mind, but I had to extricate it from me like a huge wad of tampon XL. And then I finished it about five minutes before I had to leave, and then I didn't edit, and then in the stupid workshop everybody was like oohhhhh let's see Ana's she's such a great writer. And I was all like "well, I like how it ended, well, it might not be that bad..."
I'M SO FUCKING STUPID.
I suffered throughout the reading. I managed to write the word "grandma" about 50 times in only one page, and managed to write clumsy sentences and clumsy metaphors and ohgodsaveme the whole shit was fucking clumsy. They complimented some of my shit, but still.
It was embarrasing because after about six comments on what fucking talent I have for fucking writing, to read a piece as bad as that one was fucking torture. It was like Leonardo da Vinci is a fucking genius and he's showcasing his artwork for the millionth time in Florence so you're a de Medici and you arrive at the exposition and it's all like:
So you stand in silence for a minute or so and then go "Leo, I adore what you tried to do there... the lines! The simplicity! It's gorg, Leo." Deep down, though, you're all like "this is crap."
The worst part is that when they asked for my second name (for my email adress) I told them that my second last name (that's how it goes in Chile) starts with a P and then I said "P as in poop." I think they didn't understand my rather retarded scatological humor. Ina just ignored it. THANK GOSH.
Anyways, on my bus drive and walk home, I listened to a bunch of Franz Ferdinand and Kaiser Chiefs and Nirvana and just thought about dressing in black all the time and wearing thick black eyeliner and getting a ton of piercings and taking nude shots and uploading them to Facebook. Because I felt so damn pitifull, I wanted to feel cool and untouchable for a while.
I'm going to start next week's homework now.