I Change My Underwear.

     Question: Are you very random? Answer: I’m a writer. Yes? She is my friend and her answer, although almost questionable whether she is being sarcastic or funny, is actually in my thought a very serious answer. While taking English classes in OCC and trying to improve not only my vocabulary but also my method in writing (not sure how well I'm doing) I have come across a very desirable teacher, a woman, unlike most I have ever met. She seems to inspires most of her students to become what she glorifies, writers.
     When analyzing the answer that my friend animates, I have come to a conclusion that Glynis, my teacher, has implanted a narcissistic view of writers in us, becoming the thing to be if you want a beauty like her, or be one.
     To best describe what a “writer”, or as Glynis discreetly imposes “highly educated” should be I have come across a film which Glynis is so fond of, Manhattan. Woody Allen is the star and the “writer” in the film, and although it was not as horrible as I first thought it was going to be, finding Woody Allen’s manner of speech irritating after the first five seconds, but it was pleasant and at times funny. AHA! See the brain washing has begun, before he was not even considered watch able and now I seem to relate!
     How cliché it is to say that all writers see the other side to life like artist when painting an abstract form of a simple object. Full Moon In Paris, again the writer, Louis’s friend finds himself at the top of society, educated and ultimately much more understanding to life and the mechanics behind it. His talks about going to café’s with an abundance of different people, becoming a is a necessity for writers, considering that the same old people would dull his life and his writing, tying my friend’s answer with his.
     It seems to me that I have none of those characteristics, and maybe neither did Kafka. Don’t misplace my intentions; writers do add the spring to our lives and those great writers, which turn societies mind into blinking light bulbs, do deserve their right of passage and their crown of glory. But to say that they are all random and separate themselves form the rest of human life, just would not work. How would they appeal and describe the normality’s of life if they themselves have not first experienced it.
     I guess you are asking, why am I writing this down trotted review of writers, what dose it have to do with anything? It must be the raging writer in me, when coming across something that I see so fake and also surreal. Then again I am doing what any writer would do, arguing against the rest and lending all to my view, the right view (It has to be it makes perfect sense to me). So are writers random? I don’t know, but damn that Woody Allen is funny!