Pesky Wiggle Scamper, For Flux Sake

How do I describe this?
If today were a person, I would slap him.
Caren: "Who came to grad school to study literature? Because they love literature?"
Me: I am the only person raising my hand.
Fuck every single person in this room, this department, this field, and, what the hey, this state.
There is a dizzy feeling swishing through my torso,
sloshing like I'm sitting on a forty-five degree slant.
I may be so frustrated I've ruptured my inner ear.
For the next twelve hours, if a grad student speaks to me, I'll rupture his inner ear.
I am the only person raising my hand.
If this is FLUX, I say it sucks.
An hour and a half for "Flux: Progression, Regression, and Stasis." "Flux: Boundaries, Ruptures, and Dead Ends." Our title and theme: we take a word that out of context could mean dysentery or not and then we define it. We know we are graduate students because we get together in overheated packs and define words badly. We know we are graduate students because we cannot actually name anything, because a name by definition is new. We know we are graduate students because what we really need in order to name this graduate student conference is some high-schoolers and maybe a bright eight-year-old. The sort of people who prefer the word "pesky" to the word "eschatological." "Wiggle" to "passivation." "Scamper" to "orality." We are preening retarded Adams with a collective speech impediment, our words rolling packets of syllables dry as dust.