Essentially, this post is going to be about being pretentious. In my English 401 class, subtitled Advanced Composition, we write creative nonfiction. Apparently this is supposed to be some really new edgy-type stuff. It can include anything from memoirs to essays on well, writing. In other words, sometimes it can be as boring as trimming your nails with a feather, without the cute tickling part. So you're pretty much there rubbing a finger with a dead fuzzy bit from a bird, but we won't get into that.

But no, today we discuss being pretentious. One of the members in the class was someone among the bourgeois that fancied themselves an intellictual superior of the others and began spitting out names of philosophers and authors that while they might have read, they didn't really do much for the paper. An excerpt here would be a bad idea, but suffice to say that a few of the students in there were totally lost. I was one of the few, if not the only person in there, that could at least shut this guy down a few levels. Bogging his tale down with this mindless namedropping was just like adding a 5 pound weight to a lifejacket--it might still work, but it's going to be heavier than it should be.

And what level of hypocrisy could this person be approaching when they say that art is a vain product of the leisure class, when they're sitting down at a computer terminal doing the same thing? I know he isn't THAT well off.