Bitchy Mc Bitchface

When I enrolled in an Autobiography class I didn't expect that I'd have to buy a whole lot of set texts, read these said texts and then write essays referencing them.
In fact I didn't really expect to have to do anything except write some sort of blog-like essay minus the poor structure and grammar and maybe I'd get a B+ and a pat on the head.

I also didn't expect to have to listen between 3-5pm each Monday, to other people's ranting pieces in a classroom with no windows, tables or coffee breaks. Apart from the holiday-diary-like readings of guys talking about their fishing trips, some of the stories actually managed to keep me from banging my head on the wall (because there were no desks you see).

There was the reformed heroin addict who talked about what it was like shooting up and then eventually having all your friends drop dead. Then there was the nut-case ala 'Full Metal Jacket' who wrote about his stint in the army and all the drills word for word, he obviously knew them by heart .

I amused myself though much of the classes by whispering "I knew it!" to my only friend who sat next to me, listening politely and trying not to laugh. Then when a girl who I always labeled as "insane" began to talk about how much she hated psychologists it all got too much. The writing class was like a getting everyones diaries read out to you and me putting silent bets on what each person was going to reveal.

But don't worry readers, I'm sure by now you are hoping that I will get whats coming to me. Next Monday I will get my chance to read aloud and be silently mocked by my peers. Or possibly outwardly mocked, in the form of "constructive criticism". I haven't started writing anything yet because everything that happens in my life is too embarrassing to read aloud.

Anyway I'll leave you now with some (stolen) images of Parklife. These photos of people I don't know, nor want to know will demonstrate to you in visual terms why I will not be going to parklife EVER AGAIN.