My degree is in “Communications.” When attending the great Florida State University I, like many of my peers, didn’t actually know what I wanted to do when I grew up. I took classes on everything from marketing and advertising to creative writing and *shudder* poetry.
Figure I always liked Boy Scouts, so I should adopt their motto and be prepared, right?
Given my tendency to be not particularly creative, and way too literal, let’s just say that poetry wasn’t really my strong suit. Especially since my illustrious professor in that class was a kind of crazy hippie who was the type to have breast fed her children until they were 15 or so, and we didn’t quite see eye to eye on the “beauty and love of the universe.”
But I still gave it my all.
I wish I still had some of the work that I created while in that class, I would absolutely post it here for your reading pleasure. But because I do not, you will have to settle for the following anecdote instead.
After weeks of class learning about the different styles and formats of poetry, and completing the weekly assignments with my usual flair and pizazz (aka curse words and sarcasm) we had moved on to writing in whatever style we most liked, but we had to write about a specific theme.
One week, we were assigned love. (You have to say that all high pitched and flutter your eyelashes when you do, it’s evidently what stupid idiots do when they REALLY believe in it)
Now I’m not some haggard old maid with 75 cats (though there is nothing wrong with that), I believe in and appreciate healthy relationships. I buy the whole love concept, though I kind of despise the Hollywood version of it. And at that time in my life, love was something that I probably understood even less than I do today after 8 years of marriage.
So I wrote a poem about masturbation.
Hey, it’s self-love, that counts, right?
It wasn’t outright raunchy, more like veiled language that subtly got the point across until the very end where I know for a fact I used the term “spank bank.” I think that was probably a dead giveaway for everyone in the room.
Except the professor.
I will never forget her reading my poem aloud for the class of 40 or so students in its entirety and then asking, completely clueless, “What’s a spank bank?”
Not a definition I ever in a million years thought I would have to provide aloud.
And that ladies and gentleman was the day I gave up my career dreams as a Hallmark greeting card author. Leave that to the people with an actual heart and not a twisted mind.