I have made a dangerous decision. I am at a loss this semester. My war on graduation and spreading my wings and flying out into the real world is rapidly coming to a close, and there's still so many battles, or rather, assignments, to take on. So I'm gonna be only slightly self-indulgent this time. Instead of writing the opening statement to my most important class essay in a reverent, succinct and professional tone, here's how I wanna preface it:
Siddown and shut up, lady, 'cause it's essay time. The frilly white opera gloves are off, and no more pretty words, no more frou-frou opening B.S about how I learned so much about this, because, honestly, I didn't learn but jack and squat, and Jack just left town, and no more reverence. I'm reverent before no one but God, and you ain't Him, even though you exert a divine influence over that death sentence I mockingly call a grade. It's the last month in the semester, I'm dead tired, I haven't slept right in weeks, I'm two steps from a heart attack: you're gonna read this paper, you're gonna give it, at the very least, a B-, and you'll be bloody grateful for it.
I cut my hand on the printer, so my blood, sweat and tears literally went into this paper. You want academic honesty? I only give you sources because you asked me to: I knew all this stuff by heart, and I always have. So looking up sources to match that information is me throwing my time down the drain, isn't it? I wrote this like I wrote the first essay I turned in for this class: about an hour before it started, and that time I showed up an hour late for class empty-handed, with some cockamamie excuse about the printer being "out of ink", that was me lying through my teeth, though I guess it's half-true. I do own a printer, and it is out of ink, but the truth is that it's been out of ink for the past FIVE YEARS. So I guess I wasn't really lying.
This essay was pumped out of my mighty, insane, reptilian brain like cheap metal works from an 1800's steam-powered Industrial Revolution factory, with my poor hapless inner child, that scared, pale, little boy from Lima who only wanted to be an animator and not have to suffer a million pointless deadwood assignments, as the underpaid, overworked waif behind those mighty cogs of thought. This essay was fueled not by coal and steam, but by copious amounts of soda and tea, the rancorous tone which you or any other logical professor might deem as "unacademic" or "inappropriate" was powered hard by my love, my pain, and ALL OF MY ANGER! Oh, and the punctuation was neat and orderly, just like it should be: no matter how angry, tired or broken I am, there is always time for good punctuation.
That said, sit back, relax, and TASTE MY FURY CONDENSED INTO THOUGHT.