They all ask me what I’ll do with my degree
as if English-Literature Bachelor is a title worthy
of shame; they almost cringe when they say it —
when I announce that I want to be a novelist they
smile and say ‘that’s nice’ as if they don’t think
I’m good enough to follow my dreams or they’re
worth following to begin with; I’m constantly
coddled and told that you should be a teacher —
they clearly don’t know that I do not like children;
or that I have a wit that rears it’s ugly head at the
first sign of a snarky retort; no, I’d make as good
a teacher as time, I’d end up maiming if not killing
all the pupils that had the nerve to cross me, I think
I’ll leave the teaching to people that love kids, I’ll
stick to griping and grumbling about how most
of them act as if they walked straight of Digrassi,
and expect us to not want to punish their bratty little
butts in the process, I’m of the opinion that writing
is a better day of spending my day than being two
degrees separated from raging at children under my
care, expecting me to remember them something
of greatness; I’d teach them the art of bitterness or
being lonely or cat lady 101, nothing much worth
noting after that, they’d be asleep before algebra.