The answer is studying.
Lots and lots of studying.
I groan and throw my head back as soon as I hear the words, "Let's start with the essay you never turned into me." And not in the good way.
I came in half-expecting him to bend me over a table again, but after an hour and a half, I'm still sprawled on the floor, my legs out to the side and my laptop and notes in front of me. He spends the droning, endless minutes pacing behind me, asking me if I've remembered to consider and include such and such, and then snickering when I sigh in defeat, realizing that I've completely forgot about such and such, and honestly don't really care about such and such because I hate deconstructionism. Something about it just puts me to sleep.
But for the most part, Harlan sits behind me, flipping through a
