Taking any creative writing course is a bit of a risk. You're guaranteed plenty of characters and over-shares which make me fundamentally uncomfortable. You're also guaranteed a fair amount of pretentious shits, but I've already gone over that in a previous post. I'm currently taking an intro to poetry class which I enjoy immensely; my teacher is beautiful and sensitive, and encouraging, and....sigh. Though things got pretty awkward when the 30 year old in class wrote a poem about a vibrator. My eyes widened in horror as what she described dawned on me. I prepared for supreme discomfort when we workshopped her poem, readying my pencil to take notes for this very blog post; however what I didn't realize was that someone entirely different would be the star. We shall call him Randall of Monster's inc. (because he looks exactly like him).
Randall of Monsters inc. established himself as the class oddball on the second day. "Hi my name's Randall of Monsters inc. and my favorite writer is Randall of Monsters inc." he informed us. Oh no. He also has the tendency to stare at you with a creepy crooked smile for long periods of time that would compel Stephenie Meyer to never describe a crooked smile as sexy again, and laughs randomly to himself. But it was his descriptions of poems as fluvial, and saying that he simply enjoyed the words in the poem that really established him in our class. "I liked the words in this poem," he would say in his mumbling clipped speech.
Our professor, patiently, "Which words, Randall of Monsters inc.?"
"Just you know, the words."
Bless him, our beautiful/precious/wordsmith/clever professor has yet to give up on him.
It comes to vibrator poem discussion day and we've all gone around saying what we thought of the poem: moments that worked well and things that could be improved. It's relatively painless except for one person lamenting that women get all the fun toys to play with (that was uncomfortable: I nervous-laughed), and then we come to Randall of Monsters inc. I tense, readying myself for the weird encrypted comment he's about to make.
"I thought it was very orchidaceous," he says.
Well dressed/ funny/bright smile/encouraging professor says, ever patiently, "What uh - what does orchidaceous mean, Randall of Monsters inc."
"Oh, you know just.. orchidaceous," he begins, glancing at the giant ass dictionary he brings to every class, keeping his current place with a sprig off a lupine flower (I shit you not). He finishes his ramble with, "well I don't really know what it means but this poem is definitely orchidaceous."
My head is now on the table I am laughing so hard, my face is bright red, I'm almost in tears.
Our professor, bless him, moves on.
I glance over to the copy of the poem that he had marked up for the poet's editing purposes. He had drawn a series of pictures on it. Not to mention he has circled the word Meditation in the title of the poem, drawn and arrow with the words "this reminds me of this" which points to a picture of a small factory. Why he has chosen to do this I have no idea. He honestly terrifies me.
This is what I got back on my poem. My favorite moment is when he underlines jealous and just writes "jealously lol"