 |
| https://www.bu.edu/articles/2015/the-devil-makes-them-do-it/ |
A Sense of Doubt blog post #2438 - Your Essay Shows Promise But Suffers from Demonic Possession
Just this...
https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/your-essay-shows-promise-but-suffers-from-demonic-possession
OCTOBER 20, 2021
YOUR ESSAY SHOWS PROMISE BUT
SUFFERS FROM DEMONIC POSSESSION
by MICHAEL RUBY
I appreciate the hard work that went into this essay. It has
many merits, but it also has something profoundly and disturbingly wrong with
it. In fact, I’m writing this feedback on my phone, cowering in the bathtub
with my wife, after your essay terrorized and nearly destroyed us.
Let me explain—
The essay was formatted correctly, and each sentence was more or
less intelligible in itself. But altogether, the effect was—disorientation.
Worse, actually. Pure senselessness. The Void.
I read the first paragraph three times and retained nothing (I
mean, nothing at all)—but my tongue had suddenly gone numb? And that was only
the introduction.
My wife Kate was watching Netflix on the other end of the sofa.
“Read this,” I said and handed her the laptop. A minute later, Kate said,
“There’s something very wrong with this essay.”
“Thank you,” I said. “The writing is fine, right? But also
like—fucked up?”
“Reading it, it’s like… I’m drowning or something—”
“It made my tongue numb.”
“I’m shivering.”
In short, the body paragraphs of your essay suffused my entire
home with an ambient, nightmarish anxiety.
“Okay, I’m scrolling to the conclusion,” Kate said. “Maybe I
should try reading it aloud?”
I shrug like, Be my guest.
Seconds later, I’m explaining to Kate, calmly, so as not to
freak her out, that her ears are bleeding—I mean, to be clear, your essay made
dark, treacly blood leak from my wife’s ears.
But that’s not even the worst part. She hardly noticed the
blood, because the screen on my laptop had started cycling through photographs
from my old girlfriends—private photos—photos that I swear on my life I deleted
when I started dating Kate.
So then Kate was, understandably, freaking out—about the old
photos on my computer as much as the blood dripping from her ears. And I
couldn’t really blame her for throwing my laptop across the room, where it
settled in a cranny between the TV and the wall.
“Get that essay out of the house…now,” she hissed.
“Okay, okay,” I said, but she’d gone already—upstairs to get on
the Peloton, meaning things between us were officially really bad. Meaning the
conclusion of your essay may have ruined my marriage.
But before I dealt with that, I had to go pick up the laptop and
dispose of the damn thing. Was I freaking out then? A little bit. Yes. But I
persevered. I closed my eyes and reached for the laptop and—
When I came to, I was flat on my back in the living room. How
long was I out? Can’t say. All the clocks were flashing as if the power went out.
Also, my ears were now bleeding too.
And the laptop? Vanished. Worse, no sound was coming from
upstairs—no peppy Peloton coach barking at my wife.
“Kate,” I screamed, sprinting upstairs, but she wasn’t there. I
searched the whole house, screaming my head off, and at this point, I was very
much convinced that your essay kidnapped my wife. I mean, I was about to call
the police when—
I heard a whimper from the bathroom.
Inside, the mangled carcass of my laptop was strewn across the
floor tiles, and Kate was curled up in the bathtub, crying.
“I did it,” she sobbed. “I killed it. I killed it.”
“You did it,” I said, climbing into the bathtub with her,
holding my wife close. “It’s over. It’s all over now.”
Silence.
Then she said, “It’s not over.”
“What—”
“You still have to grade it.”
80%
 |
| https://www.amazon.com/Witch-House-Explicit/dp/B07BMJX4XM |
No comments:
Post a Comment