stomach

I decided to give the random word generator another chance. This beautiful weather inspires a sense of mercy in me, I suppose. Or I really don’t want to do my reading. Either way, the word generator has been given a shot at redemption. Here’s hoping it doesn’t screw it up.

Stomach.

Okay.

I could talk about body image. I could talk about cows. Really, I could talk about anything even tenuously related to stomachs. But I won’t. Because I have been inspired. Word generator, you have done your job, but not exactly the way you should have.

In-class essays have always been a source of anxiety for me. I enjoy writing, and do it as often as I can, but I am always afraid I’ll choke under pressure. I am currently enrolled in a class this semester that begins every session with an in-class essay, so there is plenty of opportunity for me to have a breakdown. Maybe my rebellious side will take over and my mind will refuse to function simply because it doesn’t like being told what to do. Perchance my hand will finally surrender itself to a long overdue case of carpal tunnel. Maybe I will legitimately have no idea how to answer the prompt, even with the assistance of my bullshitting skills.

While the previous scenarios may very well happen someday, what usually happens is this: I think of a great way to answer the question. I think of eloquent ways to phrase my points. I even think of words that I will want to include, simply because I can. Words like “facetious” and “cornucopia.” My favorite pen makes contact with the page and I begin to write. It’s going well, until I make my first mistake. When I write with this much concentration, especially while the wheels in my head are turning so quickly, words string together. “With the” becomes “withe” and I have to whip out my trusty correcting tape. I correct the error, try to ignore the fact that the ink on the correcting tape is a slightly different color than the ink on the actual paper, and continue to answer the prompt.

But the rhythm is broken. I remember the time limit. I spew out a string of seemingly relevant words, but my hand isn’t moving at the same speed as my mind and I become frustrated as it lags behind. As if it could hear my thought process, my hand cramps with defiance. No amount of flailing will help. Not that I would flail in the middle of my class anyways. At least, not in a way that would call attention to myself.

Luckily, I finish just in time. I feel pretty confident about what I have done. Plus, there’s nothing I can do anymore, so I hand my paper to the person sitting next to me. She has filled up double the space I have on the sheet. True, my handwriting is very small. And she just crossed out her mistakes instead of covering them up completely. Those mistakes could account for the additional space used up.

Rather than freak out, I convince myself that I just happened to be more concise than her. I was probably more efficient at presenting my logic than she was with hers. I know that I wrote everything that was necessary. There is nothing fundamentally wrong with my work. Besides, it’s not the length that matters, but the content. Am I right?

Not to be crude, but if this is what insecurity regarding size feels like, then I understand, gentlemen. Sorry for making fun of you.

Also, sorry this post has almost nothing to do with stomachs.