ArtichokeAndrea and I are taking a community-ed creative writing course this term. Like everyone else in the class, I secretly hope to unearth that dormant literary genius inside me, although I'd never go so far as to admit I want to write the overhyped Great American Novel. And I don't, particularly. I'd rather hone my observation and characterization skills, and also work out my personal issue of grossly craving constant praise.
We spent a few minutes writing on the word "Artichoke." While it's unfinished, I'm still somewhat partial to what I wrote:
For two years my friends and I smuggled less-than-savory chokes from the dorm cafeteria during Lent. Sean, though Catholic, would fast until sunset, in a forty-day phase of mettle-testing discipline not entirely surprising in an architecture major. So Jess and I would stow slimy, overcooked chokes, dark green as rained-out soccer fields, back to the common room to be microwaved at nightfall in our intimate repast: three sophomores wiping their fingers on Dominoes napkins.