I went to visit my oh-so-lovely western European Senior Seminar professor, from France or Switzerland (who has great looking lips and a great hint of an accent) and we went over a couple of papers I have written about history (you know how I do). I think I write more history papers than I have had original thoughts. Number of original thoughts: 16, number of history papers written in life, 39+.
So, Good Lips and I chitchatted about all that was wrong with my papers. One of my papers was an opinion piece about me as a writer. He made me (and the whole class) write about our strengths and weaknesses as a writer. For me, I can't stand criticism. Helpful or not, I do not appreciate any one's opinion. I wrote this, among other problems in paper #1. After having read these insightful, amazing opinions, he then critiques my faults in paper #2. HELLO!!!?!?!??!!?!!! I don't like criticism!! Stop criticizing my beautifully constructed, error-free paper that has little to no faults. ever. never ever. Then, after criticizing my paper(s), he looks deep into my eyes and....silence. No words. I have nothing to say either. Yet, he examines my eyes still. Then, he looks at me and says, "I can tell from my comments and your expression (I swear, I put my BEST, best poker face on) that you don't appreciate or like criticism."
And then, I swear, I tried to hold it in....I said, "Actually, I hate it. Loathe it. Can't stand it."
Then after seeing past his curvy lips, I looked into his eyes and again....silence. So not American. If he was an American, he would have spoke up....told me to 'Buck Up'.... and then given me more unhelpful, helpful advice. But, he was silent.
Then, after all of this unbearable silence, I said, "Sorry....I really am....it's just that....this paper is over. M'over it (translated to, 'I am over it.')."
The meeting was pretty much over after that remark.
Up next: look forward to: my weird body probs, dreams, and a post about death.
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