English class. I stare; the powerpoint stares back. The existential question filters into my mind: Why am I here? What is the meaning of this classroom?

Nobody wants to hear you repeat exactly what the book said in a flat, dull, monotonous voice, Mr. Professor. Nobody needs your pages of red ink voicing unrelated comments, how YOU would have written it, etc., all over group work we don't really care about anyway because we know our grade may as well be determined by a roll of the dice. In fact, why are you here? Why are WE here? This might as well be an online class, because it's not like either of us are benefiting from our mutual presence or anything.

Tell me now, Mr. Professor, what have YOU written? Any tales of desperate struggle and ill-gotten gains? Poetry? Drunken love letters? On the basis of these I might hope – nay, believe – that you are a teacher at whose feet I can learn the arts and conventions of the English language. What fun it would be!

Alas, frustration. So much so that I feel compelled to postmark this angsty, self-reflective blog post to the world and its teachers, present and future, begging on my hands and knees in the name of all things Socratic. Do not be like Mr. Professor.

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And hello! First blog and all that junk. Currently writing up a GDD for a very understated, very reflective game about malware, information, and Communism. Sweet? I know.

Lastly, a poll: of those of you who have tried Game Maker on Windows 7, has anyone had any trouble with blend modes on their surfaces?