Yes, I vaguely remember that during ninth grade, when I was 14 years old, I volunteered for literary club, and at the first meeting I was given a paper to critique, so I racked my brain trying to think of something critical to say about it, and that I did, because of course critics criticize, that was what I was supposed to do, although I cannot remember now whatever I said about that.
There was something compelling about the horror of inviting this girl to your birthday party, and she thinks that she can take advantage of this moment to steal all of your belongings and illegally walk away with your purse. Terryfing!
I forget now why I thought the story was a complete fiction.
I forget now why I never attended another meeting of the stupid literary club.
I cannot remember now why I never seem to hear the end of that from the dreary broomstick author, because I really never liked those people anyway. It was a clliche-ridden piece of bombastic prose.
