Repeat after me: I am not a brown-nose, I am not a brown-nose...

I have returned from my ivory tower, once again, fired up by my higher education. We were supposed to bring in a draft of our paper on abortion, now there's a juicy issue to contemplate. I was determined to sit back and let them tear someone else's essay apart this time, but guess what? I was the only one who had done the assignment. And I did it, in bed, cold pills and Kleenex within arm's reach, piddling away on my laptop, sniffling as I went. It was not long enough, but hey, 4 out of 5 pages is better than nothing, which is what everyone else brought. I got shot down, kind of. The essence is there, just too much me in it, as usual. I do have this kind of passion that bristles Joels hackles. Then he did his usual explanation of why some of the grades on the last assignment may dissapoint us, and I got to that trembly stage of fear and loathing even before he handed them back. I thought I found the argument, and based my premise squarely there, so I was mentally preparing a defense, then I got mine and it was yet another A-, which is my grade so far in the course. Sigh. I intend to dazzle him with this next paper. The writing is not the problem. I am the problem. It just isn't in my nature to not feel anything, and that seems to be the gist of this particular discipline, to use reason instead of passion. OK, I can do that. I think.