Emotional Crippling, Redux

Ahhh, the joys of a sweet reversal of fortune. My British/American Lit professor hands back two papers today, and both of them--first drafts, I might add--wind up satisfactory. Well, he can just shove them both up his ass and light them on fire. It provides for me some comfort not in knowing that he appreciates them, because I'd much rather he contract gonorrhea, die, then burn in hell while never experiencing respite from the stinging feeling he'd get while urinating, than have him consider my paper satisfactory. At least I don't have to do the work again. "Satisfactory." Goddamn, even his terms for a good paper really only amount to "good enough."

What a jackass.