MONOLOGUE

At 2:50 every tuesday and thursday I make no haste to make it to the next class. 7th floor room 711, listening to the grueling ongoing grammatical flow of nonsense comng from an odd middle aged man whom believes that everyone wants to incorporate his idea of perfect writing and essence into their everyday lives. Another paper handed back to me at the end of the day, riddled with so much ink i cant begin to even read what i wrote in the first place, but the red ink reads its own “essai” of opinions. Journels, reading and minis are the downside to my days. Along with looking around the room at my annoyed and lethargic peers. Gazing out the window and sniping glances at the clock waiting to see 4:34, when it will all be over and we will be free from the unbearable holds of room 711 and our english crazed adjunct.
Never a cancelled class, only a balding, critiqing, criticisizing adjunct. sitting at his desk with his red pen waiting to scrutinize ideas and probe our minds as if he were a surgeon of words. Two times a week, everyweek, we wait in excrutiating discontent for 4:35 and to be released from our correctional officer aka our middle aged adjunct.