There are two kids in my Fiction class who don't seem to understand how my brain works. They've decided that everything I write is Golden and Amazing--and one of them went so far last week as to comment on someone else's piece by saying "I can tell where he's been listening to Matt, and I can tell where Matt's influencing him." He says things like, "We all know how Matt writes," while the other one wants me to write about his hickeys.
His hickeys, my friends.
What they don't seem to realize is that the more praise I receive the more uncomfortable I become. Writing and mix tapes are the only things in the world I can accept complements for and not feel like a jackass (and I'm sure it's my parents' fault, even though I have been assure that They Love Me, Matt), but when it's Every Single Time, it starts to feel fake. It doesn't matter if these kids like my stuff, because these kids always like my stuff. I could shit in my hand and squeeeeeeeze and these kids would hop up and down and clap. Lesson: The More You Like Me, The Less I Trust You.
Frank and I have an understanding. I like understandings a lot better than agreements--agreements have to be talked about (and therefore they require A Talk), but understandings are just understood. When something of Frank's is read in class, I nod in appreciation. When something of mine is read in class, Frank nods in appreciation. Every once in awhile we trade stories and talk about them for five or ten minutes on break. There are no hand jobs involved and we don't have to make out afterwards; it's just understood.
Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad.
No comments:
Post a Comment