i wrote an essay. this essay will be professionally reviewed in the writing commons of my school. i am not requesting review from professional or non-professional writers of tumblr. i am requesting that you read it because i like it and want to share it. it will be edited later.


Writing Essays? More Like Drop Out of College and Become a Stripper

      While having a mental breakdown of sorts over the realization that I will never be able to write an essay without having a few mental breakdowns, I pointed my internet browser of choice in the direction of the blogging platform “tumblr.com” and wrote the following message to my 11,408 followers: “essays more like drop out of college and become a stripper”. As I posted the message, I was suddenly struck with the perfect prompt to choose for the topic. Would I rather write a stupidly large amount of essays for the rest of my life, or drop out and dance in costumes in front of sexually frustrated people for stupidly large amounts of money? Well, let me tell you buckaroo, this is the easiest decision I have ever had to make.

      I can’t just answer the question straight away, because this needs to be done right, with comparison and a thorough explanation of my thought process. Having to explain is reason number one that essays are the worst thing I have ever encountered in my entire twenty years of life, and that says a lot about essays. To be fair, I procrastinated all semester and am now writing four essays in one night when I am supposed to be waking up in five hours, but I wouldn’t have even cared about them in the first place if my mother hadn’t pressured me into college. You know how many people would pressure me to strip? Zero people would pressure me to strip. The only pressure in the “entertainment industry” is keeping your body fit and that’s practically 100% of the job seeing as how dancing is so physically demanding. Writing essays makes me want to jump off a cliff into a nest of hungry tiger sharks, which is not nearly as healthy as the vigorous exercise of gyrating on a pole, held up only by my powerful arms. Some people would say that dancing is for lesser women, to which I say “You’re a fucking sexist.” My mother would say “There would be strange men fondling you and thinking about having sex with you!” to which I would reply “I do not even care!” Do you know what’s worse than strangers wanting me to grind them for 40 dollars per song? Having a nervous breakdown that lasts 2 hours.

      There are other ways to make easy money though, like selling my underwear online. You can’t sell essays online, because the customer runs the risk of expulsion. All I would have to do is find a demographic, rake in requests, sit around for a day or two and mail it to the customer. It’s a no-fuss system that doesn’t even require interaction beyond the request and delivery confirmation. Essays require me to get peer and professionally reviewed, which horrifying not only because I have interacting with strangers, but also because I don’t want anyone reading anything I write for any reason ever. During the process of writing an essay, a Venn diagram of people who are severely unhappy and people who are me would be a solid circle. Every single time I write an essay, the reader is either bored or uncomfortable, both of which are negative emotions and therefore make me sad. In a panties exchange, I get approximately 30 dollars and some pervert gets worn panties and everyone is happy!

      The message is clear here; for me, choosing between writing essays and selling my sexuality is the least difficult choice I have ever made in my life. It’s obvious that I would sell my sexuality rather than write one more fucking essay; but I’m just going to write another essay anyway. I am going to write another essay because I am told it will get me a piece of paper that says I am probably capable of doing a specific job. I am going to write another essay because my mother will kick me out of the house if I fail. I am going to write another essay even though every essay I write shoves me deeper into a gaping black pit of depression with smooth walls, high water, no floor, and nothing to grab a hold of. I will write another essay for a keyboard stroke to place a letter on a document in a computer on a desk in a building within a campus that belongs to an institute of higher learning—which really should be called an institute of higher climbing, because every time I write an essay I want to jump off a higher-growing cliff into a nest of hungry tiger sharks. I would rather sell my sexuality.

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