full o' poufters. Taught by this old guy with patchy
white spare hair (think in the style of a newly
fluffed baby chick), with an enormous pot belly who
incessently strutted across the room AND wearing a
plaid shirt.
See? I'm not picturing Jane Austen taught by some guy
who looks rather like he should be chawing on a stalk
of wheat, looking over a field in the middle of Iowa.
Because that's what he looked like.
He was amusing for the first 15 minutes, but then he
got on my nerves. Our syllabus is the most free-form
thing I've ever seen, and until we read a book
(starting with P&P), we didn't really have anything to
discuss. He was like "Well, I can stretch out what I
have to say to about an hour..."
OH GOD. Please, just don't. (But he did.) See, if you
have nothing to teach the first week of class and
we're not going to discuss anything, then don't
fucking waste my time yapping at me about YOU and YOUR
history and WHY you - you, farmer Elmer Fudd looking
type - are a "Janian". Because really? I don't care. I
seem to be getting quite narcissistic and "don't waste
my time"-y as I get closer to 30. It's getting really
bad.
Eeeeegads.
Any my left jaw still hurts. *whimper*
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