I Am An Idiot: Chapter One Zillion Thirty-Seven

Oh Dear! I have let myself get sucked into a Literary Novel. The literary novel was the invention, naturally, of literature professors. The literature professors, by the way, are mostly people who found out that they couldn't write an at age when it was to late to learn any economically or socially useful skills.

It was jealousy that prompted the invention. Literature students are usually people who like to read stories, and reading stories is fundamentally pleasing, so the Lit profs found their students mostly wearing happy faces, except of course for those who had already figured out that they couldn't write and needed to prepare for a real job somewhere.

When they looked around campus, though, they saw countless grim-faced students, worn down from sleepless nights and debilitating toil.

"Who are those hapless losers, they asked."

Physics students. Math students. Engineering majors, came the answers.

"And why are they so miserable?"

"Problem sets," came the answer. They spend their days and nights cudgeling their brains on problem sets.

The problem set was a tough notion for their brains to understand, but when they did, their hearts were filled with jealous envy at the monumental injustice of not being able to make their students suffer like students of Greek, Math, or Chemical Engineering.

The name of the genius who solved this conundrum is best forgotten, but the answer was brilliant. Literature professors, those benighted souls who could not write, would turn out dense unreadable masses of prose and require their hapless students to read them.

And that's how the literary novel got its spots.

Just so.