10/10!

As a preface to the blog I will soon be importing and, er, annotating to appease the voice that's been screaming "DO IT" in the back of my head since fifth grade, when Ms. Crabb permanently scarred my soul with the forceful introduction of Johnny Tremain into my literary canon, I'd like to say that, well...
This(1) all seemed like a good idea at the time.
I'd like to point out to the reader that, however ludicrous it might seem that a literary criticism written in my state, the shared state of all waiting-to-exhale college students, could possibly be of merit, it can be. In fact, it is. Maybe not much, and maybe not too well-founded, but merit no less. I have not written these pages uninformed or unskilled, and I have not offered less to them than I did to my work under the watchful eyes of my English teachers of junior and senior year, to whom I'd like to say thank you. Sincerely, thank you. For making damned sure I did my work, dragging the best out of me, and still letting the iced(2) sarcasm and heated(3) arguments slip in on occasion so I still felt the teensy smidgen of rebellion was present enough to make the work mine. ...and still be an A.
Dear Reader, do not be offended, because this work was not meant for your displeasure. To be perfectly honest, it wasn't much meant for your pleasure either. Still, have fun. Really though, please, don't be offended.

M

1 "This" is the bottle of marvelous Riesling, the days without sleep, the empty stomach, and the lunatic (read the book and that will be a pun) idea of writing a paper and going a bit Jackson Pollack on it with my own personal blend of BAM.
2 Frosted
3 Scorched