Give Me A Second, I'm Thinking

A dangling participle should be included, the worst sentence, as worstest sentences go, should also have misspellings, wrong tense, an few grammatical errers, and doesn’t never need no double negatives.

I’m thinking.

Just give me a second, I’m thinking.

I’m thinking my gray-haired perfectly coiffured English/Lit teacher would stand with her hands on her ample hips, look at me with squinting probing eyes, and wonder if she should lower my grade for that sentence or not.  She knew quite well I was up to something.

A prank?

Fulfilling a dare?

Provoking the teacher and therefore the class?

Enjoying a secret laugh at trying to pull the leg of a professional adult?

She knew.

She knew and I knew.

She knew that I knew better.

Ah, what fun.

She was fun, too.  She’d bring out photos, and artwork, and magazine pages to distribute throughout the class.  Our assignment?   Make up a story to go along with the scene.

Another time we were to write the ever-traditional essay about “What I Did Over Summer Vacation”.  Ugh.  My family was lucky to go to the local pool where we braved the turbulent waves made by the belly flopping water bully.  It was fun to spit chlorinated water upward like a whale’s blowhole in the bully’s direction.  We never did anything as exciting as the class’s Little Miss Popular who in just a few weeks time tripped up the Eiffel Tower, swam the Thames, and yodeled from the top of Switzerland’s Matterhorn. 

Once there was a fun assignment for my fellow classmates of filling in conversation bubbles.   Not for me.  Being funny didn’t come easy.   But I had admiration for others.  Teacher said we could use one of her papers that had characters already on it or, as Johnny would ask,  “Can we draw our own?”  Of course, Johnny could do it all.  He could draw the characters himself, fill in the bubbles, and write commentary that made you laugh out loud, my hero.  Just like Charles Schultz he could draw a Snoopy dog in love.  Of course, he became my boyfriend!

For one of my teacher’s other assignments we had to incorporate the five senses in our writings.  Her example went something like this:

“I heard the upward gurgle and felt the coming bulges of gas.  Then the stench from the splattered chunks of vomit of last night’s spaghetti supper rose to encircle my nose.  Like green bile in the back of the throat, the stench rose upwards to the eyes causing streams of tears to wet my reddened fevered cheeks.”

Sheesh, that was sensory overload!

With inspiration like these to write wrong, write funny, and awaken the senses how could I not aspire to Wuthering Heights.