Must...Finish...Essay...

I don't think having school work to do is safe for my sanity. Take tonight for example. I have an essay ton finalize, fiction short story to write, and Paradise Lost to read for tomorrow. So what did I do? I wrote poems about a tush I don't have and a rant about the one I do...

Unfortunately, it's so not voluptuously rotund that "studying this subject further" isn't even necessary (although with help from all these hamantashen I've been having it just might become one!). It’s flat for the most part...but even on some days it's rotund. Only, not like voluptuously. My tush and I have a love/hate relationship. When I was younger, I never fit in. I didn't fit into my Jewish high school because I had a flat tush (also cause I had boobs, but that's another essay). I don't fit into my predominantly African-American and Puerto Rican college because I have a flat tush. So I hate my tush. But then I eat a lot in hopes that it gets big and it gets big, but not like the cute little bubbley tushes of my Jewish counterparts...oh no, all the cute little bubbleiness in my body gets greedily taken by my boobs and they don't let any other parts of my body have any so my tush is deprived. It's like the middle child.

And then I went into my school work archives (I'm very organized) and read a bunch of sillinesses I had to write for homework in English 300 this past summer. This one in particular. Total diphthong-worthy...

(My teacher's assignment was to take the sentence that was on the board when we came into the room and turn it into a dialogue:)

"People like your dad," dramatic pause, "is what makes America the greates country in the world."
Putting down his paper, he looks to me for encouragement.
"Are."
"Are?"
"People are. A person is."
He just looks at me. Maybe he sees me, I don’t know, but he doesn’t seem to get it.
"You said ‘people like.’ Correct?"
Nodding, he averts his huge eyes to the paper to make sure. It was then that I knew he was doomed.
"Well, when the subject is plural the verb is plural." I am talking to a wall. Nevertheless, I persist. "They should always match. So, people--many persons--are. Not is."
"Oh, okay...okay," he musters with whatever pieces of dignity he can find. "I understand."
He pushes the speech to me along with his pen. Apparently, he didn’t understand. I fix the "is" and add a "t" to the end of "greates." I should have waited to have my epiphany for now.
He’s doomed.
I have to lie.
"But, y’know, other than that--I really like it. As a matter of fact, I’d even say it’s great. Really…great!"
For the first time since looking down, he looks up at me. Not that he can see anything past his hair, but looking up is a start.
"For real?" He asks while pushing his stubbornly disobedient hair back.
Whoa. His eyes are humonganoid.
"Erm-hm. For real." And I offer a smile.
Why not? He is stunning. Dumb, but stunning.
I wish sometimes that you can freeze a moment and put it away for a day when you’re bored without conspicuously taking out a camera and flashing the moment away. The look on his face was definately worth that lie. At least in my book, and that’s all that really counts anyway.
"So you think I’ll get the job?"
I was fearing that.
"With Hallmark? Are you kidding? You’re a natural!!!" He gives me another one of those kept-moment-worthy smiles and tries bulldozing his hair from his eyes another time.