I take comfort from the knowledge that you are probably dead now.  Impossibly old with an impossibly impenetrable face to match, I could never figure out just what it took to please you.  You gave me my only “F” ever, and in English, too!  I’m surprised I’m still capable of writing at all after that needless humiliation.  And why I undertook to present an oral book report of “The Lord of the Rings” (all three books) is beyond me, save your apparently insatiable need either for torture or futility.  It feels good saying I hated you.  And I still do.