There’s no ceremonious way to get out of a bunk bed. Actually, it seems as though dorm rooms are designed to preclude ceremony. Or maybe (cough) I have issues with grace and poise. Either way, when I fell out of bed this morning and picked up my Spanish textbook, the content of the assigned short story woke me up faster than a hard floor–or a triple-shot latte.

Why, why, is Spanish literature so disgustingly nasty? Perhaps I’m inaccurate in the generalization. If I am, then why on earth do teachers choose to teach such gratuitously bloody, nasty, purposeless stories?

Do they really think students WANT to roll out of their bunks very early in the morning to, say, read a short story about an old man getting a tooth pulled with pliers and pocketknives (thanks, Gabriel Garcia Márquez) or a locísimo newlywed who kills all the animals in his dining room to teach his bride a point?

So, even if students hate the class, they’ll read the stories for sheer sensationalism?

Okay, so maybe I’m just scarred from an early-morning Spanish lit experience I didn’t need. Also an awkward bunk bed. I’m not bitter. Really.

/end rant

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