George Saunders was in town a few weeks ago and the students in one of the comp classes are writing essays about him. The assignment asks them to write letters to him, feeling free to express all their feelings in language he might use. Here are some samplings of some conversations in the writing center this week.
Student A: George, you are fucked up! What was that shit all about bricks on penises? That's so fucked up.
Student B: Man, I think you are a huge pervert. There could have been kids in the room!
Student C: I was tired as hell that night and your sexy reading woke my ass right up.
Student D: What's up with your short stories, man? They all about doing nasty sex. Don't you have a life? Why'd they give you a genius grant?
Then, poor Student E who was working on a different paper, felt the need to chime in with colorful language. His assignment was to write about something that didn't meet his expectations. He told me, "I thought learning to drive would make me a pussy magnet. Turns out, all I did was work my ass off for gas money and I looked nothing like The Fast and The Furious. I might as well have grown a mustache."
After years of nomadic temporary employment, advanced degrees, and chocolate ice cream, a rugger with a love of knitting and a cyclist with no domestic skills signed a Ketubah and bought a house in Pittsburgh.
1 comment:
Love your attitude--may as well enjoy them :)
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