Boyfriends and the Writing Class

Lord Byron

All boyfriends should to be taken to a writing class.

They should be made to sit in a feedback circle with other student writers and made to question their lives, because questioning their existence is a good way for them to discover the brain that they choose to bury deep inside their asses, the moment they take on the role of ‘special someone’. They should be picked at, like a badly written poem, torn apart syllable by syllable, and reworked until they rhyme. And we’d really like our boyfriends to rhyme. Blank verse is great, only if it works though. Big words and feelings don’t make a poem; it’s not that easy really. They can’t be silly, like a poem where fish only rhymes with dish, and they can’t be obscure, like the poem where the moon is a bringer of joy and pleasure to an aching heart. Oh no, they need to be balanced, like maybe a piece by John Donne?

A boyfriend in a writing class, especially an errant one (and I mean boyfriend), would be a perfect specimen for dissection. The class would pin him up on a white board and analyse him; read him left to right, then right to left, then upside down then back to front, over and over again searching even the spaces between his shoddy alphabets for meaning. But who’s to say that the meaning is even his own? Doesn’t the meaning lie in the minds of the reader?

Come to think of it, I wonder why boyfriends weren’t made in writing classes. It would have been easy, if they came from such a place. Picking them out would definitely be easier, because by the time they emerge from the class, they would have Kala Ma’am’s squiggly antenna-ed stamp of approval. They would work at least 9/10, like all proper pieces of writing should.

Or maybe ideal boyfriends are made in writing classes after all.

Those damn boyfriends and lovers and other non-existent men of interest that are so sweetly fleshed out, romanticized, idolized, and perfected in writing classes and their products. Those damn books with their ‘approved’ heroes with the panty-dropping charm, heart stopping smiles and unbelievable wit. Damn them all. Damn them for creating the bloody construct of an ideal man.

Damn the bloody writers who made them all up.

Damn the real bloody boyfriends who disappoint.

How I wish they were poems I could rework.

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