touchmonkey

I was one of those people who laughed hysterically at the scene in Reality Bites when Winona Ryder’s character is asked to define irony. She froze up, unable to actually define the term, despite the fact that she used it all the time.

It was funny because it was true. It exposed the hypocrisy of the pseudointellectual - the sneering know-it-alls who actually don’t. And while I made it a point to memorize every possible definition of irony after watching the movie, I certainly haven’t veered very far from my hypocritical roots as a pseudointellectual.

I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill faker, no sir! I’m no smartypants dilletante who settles for weaving twenty-five-cent words into otherwise normal conversation. I take it to the limit. And I know when I’m quoting cheesy songs.

I take intellectual hypocrisy to the next level because I’m a teacher. Every day I lecture my students about the importance of personal organization and time management. I preach on and on (and on and on) about the absolute necessity of writing regularly in order to hone their craft. I even mark up their papers with lots of red ink when too many sentences begin with the same word.

Then I go and neglect my own writing so badly that my blog goes months without an update, my novel remains stalled in its second chapter, and every other sentence I compose begins with the most self absorbed of pronouns.

I am the Pot.
Goo goo g’ joob.