Alone in the Master Class

Angered and a little ragged, I had thrown the pile of manuscripts, acetates and watercolours at Professor X-Cow — my way of dealing with the too-discerning — and stormed off to my room, deadlineless but conflicted. At that point, I would have been content to have entered an unexitable sensory-deprivation chamber and be childishly spared of the judgement. But I persevered. Scouring the hall for a nervous minute or two, I found him and apologised. As I turned to leave, a metaphorical breeze (or something) blew open a page of my now-legendary Closed Book, and I turned back. With that nervous beating the self-censor does its best to avoid, I attempted to explain myself.
"It's my heart, poured, distilled and honed. If your life and smarts leave it lurched, where does that leave me?"
I failed.
"It's my shoes," he said, and walked off in them.
Actually, that made a whole lot of sense — and I hated him for it.

"This is what I worry about," I pined to weary Harry. "This is my book."
Harry scratched his chin, clearly not in the moment.
"All right," he said, somewhat despicably.
"All right? Is that all you can say?"
"Well, what'd you want me to say?"
"I dunno — something more articulate. I mean, I finally spill my guts to you after you've been nagging me for so long and all you can say is 'All right'."
"I haven't been nagging you. That was the real Harry."
I made an about face.
"Oh yes — so it was," I murmured. "Um—"
"Don't worry about it. It happens once in a while."
"I'm sorry. But listen, what do you think of old X-Cow?"
He laughed and shook his head.
"The smartest guy I know but for his manner," he said.
"I'm not sure if that makes sense."
"It doesn't. It's his job, not his pleasure. He may be the most qualified, but I doubt he gets the most enjoyment out of it. Heck, he doesn't pay for it — why should he?" Harry's eyes went parental. "He's a cultural superialist despite his preference for non-statement statements."
"Cultural superialism doesn't even mean anything — that's not even a word," I said.
"I know."
"Will you stop that? These arguments don't make sense."
"Undoubtedly, but at least remember King Kurt."
"Yech, no thanks."
"No, not them. The singular one."
"Oh."

Me on my top bunk, him on his bottom, the lights vanished. Not asleep, I grabbed my guitar.
"I wrote a new song, Harry."
"Mmm?"
"It goes like this: 'Fuck you, X-Cow. Fuck you, X-Cow. Fuck you, X-Cow'."
"A love song, then?"
"Yep."