Skipping class this afternoon as a way of relieving my head from the stress I’ve been accumulating for the past little while. Plus this is my way of rebelling against my professor who randomly picks on me in class, asking random questions about something I don’t even know the answer to.

I’ve been stressing over this essay I’ve to write for my Romantic Poetry class, which I only finished this morning, which means I’m probably going to do badly on it. Peter has become my good luck charm, without him glossing over my essay and making things sound neat and orderly I’m pretty much set for a bad mark. I have never had such a hard time writing an essay before.

I said it once and I’ll say it again – I hate poetry. Hate it hate it hate it. Especially Romantic Poetry.

Here’re some random thoughts on the dead poets that are the cause of great anguish for me:

1) Wordsworth. Try as hard as I might, I can never understand Wordsworth. He’s all over the place - a couplet here, triple rhyming scheme there, and then he throws in random blank verses in poems that are perfectly normal without them. And then there’s the content, which is ok if it wasn’t in poetic form. When I read poetry, I always pause at the end of the line which makes it sound choppy, so to fix my problem, I tried singing the poems with made up tunes from old Hymns we use to sing. Although this made up for some definitely depressing songs, it worked like a charm. (No, don’t ask me to sing, I can’t sing.)

2) Coleridge. Coleridge is actually pretty amusing: he married the wrong girl, fell in love with another girl, realized he couldn’t be with her, fell into depression, was addicted to opium, broke his leg and wrote poems about it. His poems are less stressful than Wordsworth’s, especially because Coleridge thought he sucked so all I had to write about was why he didn’t suck and that it was just his depression talking. Still, there’s only so much about his not sucking I can write about.

3) Shelley, who is my favourite romantic poet (if someone who hates romantic poetry can have a favourite) because he talks fast (or so I imagine). It’s like he has ADD and can’t settle on talking about one thing and ends up talking about a million different things instead. Plus he died early, leaving Mary Shelley alone to write Frankenstein.

4) Blake. I’ve complained about Blake before. Actually, after I found out that Blake hated Wordsworth I became fonder of Blake. Every time I think about Blake I think about some angry old man with ink all over his hands, writing about made up myths and children on clouds, living in dark gloomy rooms in London. Now that I mention it, in my head Blake looks a lot like Peter Pettigrew (with all his fingers intack). It’s very confusing.

5) Byron. I haven’t really bothered with Byron, I just found the fact that he had his face plastered on plates and teacups entertaining, it’s like he was Justin Beiber. He was also a womanizer and had a clubfoot so he walked with a limp, which only goes to show you that all you needed was to be a poet in the 19 c. for girls to come flocking to you.

So that's it. Hope that wasn't too boring to read.

Anyway, we had a nerd party going on today at Gerstein. I ran into Eddie, Armin, Annabelle, Johnny, Melvin, and Vivian, who were all there sitting separately, unaware at first that they were all at the computer area. It was enough to start an LH meeting.