I churn up my stomach as my ingratiating feet paddle me forward. I am here to hand over a few pages of myself, bleached white and looking like homework assignments and killing me. When I lay eyes on the fact that you'll judge my work, I'll be ready to vomit. We're happy this way.
That's what it feels like to submit. To be put in a sensitive lottery, combining censorship and logarithm to come up with the most pristine student literature (chosen of 200 words or so, including name) to be sheathed out in several million underignored copies for muddy feets but ALSO for unending praise from the teachers, the brick wall English scholars, who really don't understand but love your your stuff, just love to stare it down, digest it, burp satiated, give yourself a little self-confident heartburn that you really got it, really scraped all the scum off the grates of my mind through 70 swearless words on your coffee break, on your FUCKING coffee break, and aren't you so happy that I didn't use ANY swears, I show such great maturity.
Oh, god. Get out of the way. Here it comes!
I regurgitate for you. On those deceptive line structures.
Accept these.
