Critiquing other people's stories makes me want to do nothing more than write my own. I'm in the middle of Sadie Valentino's story, and I feel like sinking back into her skin and cellulite and that preposterous voice instead of writing up comments on classmates' stories. Critiquing is a valuable experience, both getting and giving, but occasionally it can border on frustrating beyond belief. And the blatant realism I'm expected to wade through just makes me want to open up the closet and release the Dogs of Surrealism! I want to unpack the poetry gun and start shooting people with it. Of course everybody has their own style and own peculiar obsessions, perversions, and themes of interest. It pays to remember that, even while you're drowning in the river with concrete shoes on and you're wearing a box--