I Hate Yu

Brains...We need brains...

You were just a waste of sperm
They way you look makes my stomach turn
The way you think is no way at all
God you really think you have balls


I hate Yu
Ain't it true
I hate Yu
And everything you do


You walk around like a fucking dick
And everytime you're near you know I get real sick
You're so stupid there's nothing in your head
God how I wish that you were dead


I hate Yu
Ain't it true
I hate Yu
And everything you do


~ Slayer, cleverly respelled and dedicated to my dentist, Dr. Yu.

Once again, I am short on time today, so I just thought I would chuck some of today's in-class writing assignments at you.

A paltry substitute to my usual wit and charm, I know, but...

But I'm busy. So get bent.

Oh! There's that charm.

Today we had to write a fictional example of conflict, and then a fictional setting of a potential conflict. Mine were actually based entirely on truth, and just dramatized, but the other people in the class - who wrote about their cats and dogs and bunnies - didn't know that.

So why did they still give me such a wide berth?! So weird.

Anyway. Enjoy.


       ***You’ll never guess what happened to me today...(example of conflict)***

I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. Because of all the drugs. Just like old times, I will often wake up to find myself in the middle of some activity - in the kitchen, looking for food; in my office, trying to write something. This morning I woke up in two separate locations, sleepwalking.

The first time, I was alone in my room. I woke up with a start when I dropped my water bottle onto my desk with a bang, and the water sloshed over everything, including my computer. I immediately grabbed some kleenex and started mopping it up, but I didn’t actually remember getting out of bed or picking up the water bottle at all.

The second incident, unfortunately, had witnesses - the last two witnesses I could ever have wanted.

I woke up in the upstairs bathroom, a bath towel in my hand, both my parents standing in front of me.

“What are you doing up here?” my father asked, and I shook my head dumbly.

“I want to use your shower,” I said eventually. I knew that much, at least.

“Why?” asked my mother. “What’s wrong with your shower?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, then walked out of the bathroom again.

 And with that I walked downstairs, climbed back into my bed, and just went back to sleep.

I was sleepwalking again less than an hour later, though.

I woke up to find myself desperately trying to use my cell phone.

I was trying to call my drug dealer.

Huh. How about that.



***Example of a Setting and Potential Conflict: What Could Go Wrong, Who Could Get Hurt***

I was groggy as I stepped off the plane, but fear quickly snapped me out of it. Since my last disastrous experience with the Immigration officers in England, I had become a nervous wreck about crossing the border with less than legal intentions.

The line up for the passport check-in was long, which I ambivalently found to be both a relief and a real pisser. How many people want to get into fucking Guam? I wondered irritably, as I watched the slow procession of shuffling feet inching ever closer towards freedom. It’s fucking GUAM.

Still, it gave me a few extra minutes to rehearse my story one last time, even though I had been doing so for weeks.

I went over the details in my mind for the millionth time - I had just graduated from the University of Alberta; had been working as a waitress and was soon to be teacher at home; was meeting Trevor here so we were getting married on the beach; would only be staying for three weeks; we chose Guam because...we chose Guam because...

Fuck! Why did we choose Guam again? I wondered desperately, as my panic started to rise. Think, think!

Our friends got married here, a voice cut through my fear, and I almost gasped with relief. That’s right. Some of our friends got married on the beach here, and gosh, it was so romantic, we wanted to do it too.

God, the pressure is getting to me, I thought wildly, as my eyes darted around to see if anyone was watching me. It wasn’t like anyone could really catch me trying to sneak into their country to work, exactly - I didn’t have any costumes or other work paraphernalia on me. But then, I didn’t have any on me in England, either, when Immigration pulled me out of line and held me for sixteen hours.

I wouldn’t have been such a mess this time if the stakes weren't so bloody high - like if I would only be banned for seven years in Guam, you know? Like, it’s Guam. Who cares?! But that’s the thing about American territories - you get caught working as an illegal alien in one of them, and they ban you from all of the United States, for seven years.

        And since there was no Canadian equivalent to Las Vegas, this simply could not happen.