Inappropriate Splurts

Yesterday I took the second exam of three for my summer class, and I honestly do not know what possessed me, but I decided to treat three of the four essay questions as fun creative exercises instead of serious, grade-dependent essays. For two of the questions I imagined dialogues between the theorists, and for the other I wrote a letter from the theorists to the leaders of the society they're judging. (It would be prohibitively boring to explain this in more detail.) I endeavored to explain the theories with diligence through this creative filter; I didn't just screw around. But Mean Brain continues to tell me that I made a complete fool of myself and probably didn't even cover the whole theory in detail and WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO TURN YOUR MIND INTO A TUNA MELT DURING THAT TEST YESTERDAY.

I don't know. Except that I haven't written any fiction in something like two months (perhaps longer, because it's been Revision City around here since the spring), and I suspect that failing to use that release valve has caused creativity to splurt into totally inappropriate places.

Like, Shelley and Wordsworth, after drinking too much wine, came to blows about whether a poet should be solitary or social in one of my "essays." And Kant said "la-dee-dah" to Hume. Those are inappropriate splurts, I think.

Or this. This kind of splurt is what happens when you generally repress sexuality across a society.
It's a slippery slope from weird exam answers to anthropomorphic cigarette packages. 

Only one more week of this class and then I can write. Oh, except not really, because I signed up to take the GRE at the end of the month and I need to learn geometry. Thankfully, the end of July will mark the end of my summer chores; I get to play for all of August. And with luck I won't have to take the GRE, nor learn geometry, ever again.

With further luck, my professor will find my answers delightful instead of idiotic. God, what was I thinking?