459 years ago, William Shakespeare was born. Brilliant poet, playwright, and actor. Bard of Avon. Bane of my existence.

Shakespeare used Iambic pentameter in many of his sonnets and plays. The very thought gives me a headache. I was taught that you’re either a starry-eyed Shakespeare fan, or you politely pretend to enjoy his writings. There is no gray area. Like attempting to understand quantum physics, I do not understand nor appreciate Shakespeare.

I recently picked up a 40-lb hardbound monstrosity of Shakespeare’s Greatest Hits, perusing the pages to see if my taste in reading has changed. It has not. Reminiscent of my lifelong distaste for lima beans, I spit out the pages in protest, and placed the weighty tomes of Shakespeare on the floor where it will remain in servitude as a door stop.

The academics and intellectuals gush over Shakespeare’s brilliance. Studying his writings became a mandatory stepping stone to writing courses that I found far more fascinating.

One semester, a bespectacled professor of English Literature had the daunting task of teaching me to appreciate the writings of Shakespeare. There were several dozen students enrolled in this course, but I became his greatest challenge.

The professor didn’t like me, and the feeling was mutual. I was untamed, unrefined, and unworldly. He was determined to change that, as he prattled on in a serious monotone, expounding on writings that bored me to death. This man, togged in his predictable brown tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, was going to make me love Shakespearean plays if it killed him. Truthfully, the only person that I wanted dead was Shakespeare himself.

Humor was my name; creative writing was my game. I much preferred laughter over the mind-numbing seriousness of this course. The instructor stood at his podium, a despot reigning over his empire. He occasionally singled me out, peering over his glasses, unsuccessfully trying to stare me into submission.

My mind wandered, amusing myself with more interesting subjects. Anything that I wanted to know about Shakespeare could not be found in this course. I wondered about his personality, his favorite food, the nuances of his daily life. Did he hate his parents, get along with his siblings, or sneak out of a second story window to attend a kegger party.

I wished to know what Shakespeare’s least favorite subject was in school. Did he ever imagine that his writings would become my least favorite subject? What the hell, Bill! You could have taken it easier on us poor schlubs forced to study your painful epistles.

I resigned to the fact that I will never understand what others see in Shakespeare. I wanted this course to come to its tragic conclusion. Eventually, I did what any class clown would do. I made up verses to pass the time.

Oft seen wearing an elaborately frocked cone of shame
The Elizabethan collar was its name

What was Bill hiding in those ballooning breeches
Come forth ye naïve he prefaced his speeches

I wanted to know why William Shakespeare married his neighbor, Anne Hathaway, when he was 18. A marriage of convenience, I presume.

Bill’s betrothed lived a mile and a half from his home
Proving Will was simply too lazy to roam

I wondered if like me, William was a messy eater. Did he spill food into the crevices of his frocked collar on Taco Tuesday? And was his extravagant attire hand-washable? I concluded that everything was hand-washable. After all, it was the 16th century!

Come hither ye old ewer
Thou doth not wish to smell like a sewer

It’s well-known that the causes of death in Shakespeare’s plays were stabbing, beheading, and poisoning. I would like to add strangulation to the list.

Scene One, Act One: Woman who failed English Lit laughs maniacally as she strangles Shakespeare. Both tragic and comedic. And as Hamlet so astutely says before he dies, “The rest is silence.”