Alex's Deepest-Personal Narrative
Alex had always loved this type of weather, it was the very best thing about Queensland. It was a pressing heat, dry yet humid. It was a warmth you could feel in every area of your body. A pressure that only meant one thing, an incoming storm that would arrive late in the evening. It was the best time to be outside; the best time to swim, to play football, to sun bathe. Things Alex longed to be doing, things that she would be doing, that is if she was not incarcerated inside a saunaesque - filled to the brim with seventeen year old male body odour - classroom, reading an inarticulate book she wasn't even sure the author of the book would read.
English had always been her favourite subject. In the trivial sense that when someone asked for her
favourite subject she consistently answered with ‘English’. The only reason behind the favouritism being she had the ability to bullshit any piece of work and still manage a passing grade, it had no relevance to her enjoyment of ‘the written word’, or her lack there of. She honestly thought English as a subject was bullshit within itself. The idea that someones work (the basis of their future) would face scrutiny and sentencing by a single judge or two - both of whom had obviously failed in their own writing careers as they had ended up teaching it instead of being on the New York Times Bestsellers List - did not sit well with someone who believed that writing was entirely subjective.
She turned the page as roughly as she possibly could, a silent prayer in her mind that if it ripped she would no longer have to read it. The words on this piece of wasted tree seemed even smaller than the last. The first sentence beginning with ‘he’ seemed to already bore with those two letters. She never liked media focused on men, it was always so very - drab.
In spite of her hatred all the chosen curriculum books had male protagonists. Alex would be left to wonder why if her very much heterosexual, white male teacher wasn't leaning over the girl sitting beside her, reading over her shoulder, while his hand caressed her hair. It was something seen often in this class but regardless Alex suddenly had a very strong urge to pull the girl away and protect her from pretentious, British, overweight, pedophiles.
English had always been her favourite subject. In the trivial sense that when someone asked for her
favourite subject she consistently answered with ‘English’. The only reason behind the favouritism being she had the ability to bullshit any piece of work and still manage a passing grade, it had no relevance to her enjoyment of ‘the written word’, or her lack there of. She honestly thought English as a subject was bullshit within itself. The idea that someones work (the basis of their future) would face scrutiny and sentencing by a single judge or two - both of whom had obviously failed in their own writing careers as they had ended up teaching it instead of being on the New York Times Bestsellers List - did not sit well with someone who believed that writing was entirely subjective.
She turned the page as roughly as she possibly could, a silent prayer in her mind that if it ripped she would no longer have to read it. The words on this piece of wasted tree seemed even smaller than the last. The first sentence beginning with ‘he’ seemed to already bore with those two letters. She never liked media focused on men, it was always so very - drab.
In spite of her hatred all the chosen curriculum books had male protagonists. Alex would be left to wonder why if her very much heterosexual, white male teacher wasn't leaning over the girl sitting beside her, reading over her shoulder, while his hand caressed her hair. It was something seen often in this class but regardless Alex suddenly had a very strong urge to pull the girl away and protect her from pretentious, British, overweight, pedophiles.