Killing the Art

Do you ever find yourself obligated to say something even when you have nothing to say?

That’s me and this blog right now.

This week has been intense, between school…and really, only school.  Every day I wake up and head off to that hellhole and think to myself, “Someday…there has GOT to be a point in my life when I will either stop hating this or just be graduated.”  I can’t see that day, though, is the thing.

That’s always been a problem for me: Visualization.  I don’t work well with algebra, for example, because I can’t make all those equations come together in my head.  Geometry, though, with the shapes and the line segments and the faces and planes that I can put together out of construction paper and see and touch and feel?  I get it.  I need concrete.  Not abstract.

And so when I’m enrolled in three upper-level English classes whose professors all think that THEIR subject is the Holy of Holies of literature {which I can understand because if I wasted my entire life writing a dissertation on a huge pile of nonsense that is stuffy elitist literature, I would be inclined to take it pretty seriously, too [which is why you will never see me set FOOT in a graduate class, and that’s a promise]}, and therefore assign biblical amounts of reading for their course, and not only the reading because if it was just the reading it would be like an extended vacation, but no, we mustn’t forget the writing—oh, the writing—the papers, the essays, the midterms, the research, the effing MLA format.  All of it combined has a peculiar way of making me want to pull out every strand of hair from my body and mourn the passing of my life as I once knew it.

See how I get dramatic when I read too much Modernist literature?  It’s unhealthy.

And I know, I know… I want to be a writer and so all this writing shouldn’t be a problem, but don’t you see?  CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT THIS IS DOING TO ME?  It’s sucking the life out of me.  Forcing myself to write all these research papers which I don’t care about—not one lick, truth be told—on subjects I won’t ever discuss again as long as I am living and discussing?

It’s killing the art.  Charles P. Wiggins the Third is dying, dying, dying, a slow and torturous death.  He wishes he’d never taken up smoking the cancerous English language in the first place, and how could he be so stupid?  With the FDA warning labels, he should’ve seen it coming, but he got addicted—not to nicotine, but to rhetoric—and mark my words, my friends: IT WILL BE THE DEATH OF HIM.

And so it is with much sorrow I announce that, yet again…

…I got nothin.

About Camille

I'm Camille. I have a butt-chin. I live in Canada. I was born in Arizona. I like Diet Dr. Pepper. Hello. You can find me on Twitter @archiveslives, Facebook at, instagram at ArchivesLives, and elsewhere.
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