Being = Grading

It’s time to rant incoherently online; I’ve earned it, damn it. So, to interrupt the latest and possibly-most-ridiculous Trump shitstorm (i.e. Comey-firing) as well as my own ill-fated, all-week & late-night Final Grades marathon, I’d like thank the following, without which I would’ve spent these days hollering unprofessional unpleasantries at my laptop: Coffee-M.I.A.-coffee-Slayer-coffee-M.I.A., as well as my drumset sitting nearby in my study for when I catch a plagiarist. And, now that there’s no hope in hell I’ll meet my deadline: Lana Del Rey…and merlot. (I am more specific on the wine than the coffee. Why?) See I’m at the point where, in a comment to a Texas student’s essay on Open Carry, I find myself searching Mary Karr’s badass memoir “The Liar’s Club” for that line about how every Texan knows how to…well, here it is: “In Texas any four-year-old knew you didn’t point a firearm at a live creature unless you wanted it dead. Even a busted, empty gun got handled like a snake.” (And then the author’s mother spends the next epoch pointing an unnecessarily swanky pistol at her drunken husband while deflating him with a merciless rhapsody on how fucking worthless he is.) So for the moment I’m all for Open Carry in the state that produces such amazing nonfiction lit. And I am, contrary to the style of this rant, quite lucid. But for tonight, I am ceremoniously putting the Presentable Prof. persona to sleep. Am I not entitled to my own verbal diarrhea, posted in public without paragraph breaks, no matter how disingenuously I ponder over it? As a defender of respectable and logical academic discourse, I hereby claim the right to just fucking lose it sometimes. Comma comma comma, citation citation citation.


Prof. A