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In Which The Salt Girl Is Sucker-Punched By A Door

If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant, or even spent significant time in one, then you know that the swinging kitchen door may well be more dangerous than the ovens and stovetops. This is particularly true when the swinging door is being kicked open–which is most often the case, as stuff must be hauled in and out of kitchens frequently. What nincompoop decided that these heavy, often precariously hinged doors needed only a tiny porthole-sized window in them? And what of short people, or tall people, for whom the window is not at eye level?

So the long and short of it is that I have been assaulted by one of these doors, which was assisted significantly by a healthy kick from a coworker, and now I have a bit of a black eye. It’s not a total shiner–not really noticeable unless it’s mentioned–but it does look, when I raise my eyebrow, as though I’m wearing eggshell-purple eye shadow, which I would never do. Last night, there was a knot on the side of my brow bone (the point of impact, and, ahem, OW) that stuck out like a bone spur and made me look a bit like I had a baby horn growing, but thankfully, that disappeared in the night and was replaced with a plum-colored sensitive spot right at the crease of my eye which looks like I’ve badly applied a really awful shade of eyeliner.

But really, I don’t care how it looks. It’s fucking annoying. I keep rubbing my eye and accidentally inflicting sharp pains on myself, and it’s still swollen enough that I can see it in my peripheral vision, which is a bit invasive. It’s tight-feeling, and I want to close my eye, which is really not hoping in the quest to accomplish a truly epic amount of homework.

Someday perhaps I will make peace with inanimate objects, and they will stop violently attacking me, but this latest is evidence in my mind that it will not happen soon. Somebody’s not done laughing at me yet.

Blather Books Observations Pointless Narcissism Rant School Think

No Wonder Sir Thomas More Was Beheaded

Someday, and I hope it is soon, someone will give me a legitimate and sufficient reason why, pure sadism aside, college professors routinely insist on assigning to their students the most laborious and unreadable muck. Often these assignments are preceded by something along the lines of, “well, it’s a bit dry and not very engaging, but…” Well, if it’s dry and not very engaging, then why the hell should I subject myself to the task of reading it?

I have, as of five minutes ago, officially given up on reading Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, for which our class was granted a total of two days. I am a fast reader, and I take down Shakespeare like it was the Bobbsey Twins, but I liken the attempt to read More’s tireless manifesto to riding a bicycle through wet cement.

The great irony here, too, is that in another class, Magazine Writing, the text insists that one must be as concise as possible in writing, and avoid unnecessary and arrogant clutter. Yet, in my British Literature class, in which I expect to be reading the “greats,” all I have gotten so far is clutter. Of the 110 pages I’ve read so far (and the book is about 145), I would guess that the whole of More’s statement could be conveyed in no more than 50 pages, and that would be generous. His sentences are so long that before you reach the end of them, your eyes begin to cross and you must return to the beginning to recall what exactly he was talking about to begin with.

I know that as the class progresses, and the timeline moves forward, the reading will get to be less tiresome, but I like to think of myself as a diligent student, and it pains me to cast aside an assignment out of frustration in only my first week of classes. Were this the only time this has happened, I would not be so annoyed–but it has happened multiple times, and I’ve started to notice a trend. While I understand that much of 16th century writing is thus cluttered and long-winded, I’m sure that there could be chosen another example of the time period which would at least engage a reader to the point of completing it. I can only imagine the trouble this awful book has given the other students in the class, mostly sophomores, some of whom undoubtedly read more slowly and retain less than I do. I finished Tristram Shandy (which, for those of you who don’t know, is a 700 page book with neither plot nor point, which moves around at random and has a jillion footnotes) and I think I was the only one in the class who did.

If I can take down Sterne as I did, then my inability to finish this godforsaken piece of (completely irrelevant at this point in time) political rubble should be recognized for what it is: proof that More’s writing is dull, overly puffed-up ego-tripping. So what if it was a stab at Henry VIII? So what if More was beheaded for it? I’d behead him, too–and not for the insult. So what if he was sainted by the Catholic Church? I find myself in direct disagreeance with nearly everything the Catholic Church has to say. His complete madness should be evidenced by the fact that he wore lice-ridden hairshirts and whipped himself, for fuck’s sake. And this is someone whose teachings I’m supposed to be enlightened by? No one who purposely mortifies his own flesh with goat hair should be taken as anything less than a lunatic.

So there. Now you all know what I’ve been doing, and why I’ve been so silent lately. I have gone back into “school mode,” which due to my self-defeating class choices means that I will have very little time to write long-winded, puffed-up diatribes of my own.