Why I'm Not an Academic

 Tuesday, 8:55, the kettle is still asleep, (so is the cat lounging near a broken radiator)

Sitting on a foldable table from the charity shop.

The essay is called “Cultural Communications in Post-Modern, Post-Industrial, (Post Democratic?) Britain”.

I think about communication. I write three pages about the word communication.

A short story of a man who is conscious but cannot communicate with his surroundings. (Bibliography 19?3, 123)  Three pages without using the word “communication” once.

I reference scholars: Beck, Badieu, Becket, B.B. King.

The sun is visible (West). An academic sign for getting drunk.

I go the race-pub downstairs, I out all my money on a horse (Chomsky’s Revenge).

Downing the pint, a toothless lady is staring at me tweed patched jacket.

I write that in my essay. An example of post-colonial guilt.

My friend Chopin got a 1^st  in composition, although he failed performance as he’s been asleep for the last 150 years.

“In democracy your vote counts; in feudalism, your count votes” (201?, Bathroom wall)

I stand in line at the entrance to the pedagogic cage. Girls turn ugly as they come out (PC-Resistance). Napoleon is sour-faced as he did not reference his battle plans correctly (Harvard).

Two weeks later, I get a high mark, although I am accused of plagiarizing O’Hara.