Let’s set the way-back machine for 1994, the first day of advanced creative writing class with David Foster Wallace.

Hmm, are we there?  Good.

First impression.  Who’s the guy in the doo-rag and the NKOTB t-shirt?  And, why is he chewing tobacco like a fiend?

I’m in trouble.  I don’t know what otiose, fecund, or inchoate means.

Why is this guy leering at all the girls?

He keeps saying if we don’t want to be here, drop the class. Maybe I should seriously consider dropping?

This guy’s average grade is a D minus?

He’s going to be the flamethrower to our ass?  Sounds unpleasant.

3 hours later, I knew for a fact that I was in trouble.  I was from what he called a “back-woods” county.

I had never heard of David Foster Wallace, but apparently he was a “big deal” writer and I should drop the class so a more worthy student, of which there were many waiting, could take my spot.

I didn’t drop the class, and I did better than a D minus.

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