I attended my first Creative non fiction class this week at U of T. I was surrounded by political activists fighting for First Nations, the abused, the environment. People who enjoyed writing research papers for their masters in political science. People who named authors I’ve never heard of while the rest nodded emphatically.
I’m superficial and a bimbo. I could feel my cheeks burning and my armpits growing damp. I felt about as inspiring as a pan of milk and as deep as a teaspoon.
I was so shaken by the experience that I stopped at Joe Fresh on the way home and bought myself a flannel shirt. What better way to make myself feel better than to buy a shirt I don’t need, particularly one that was most likely made in a sweatshop.
I suspect that we will be work-shopping a classmate’s essay about third world exploitation on the day I wear my Joe Fresh shirt. I may as well embroider vapid on the collar right now.