Cinemorphosis

Tag: education

  • Death by Convenience: The AI Ads That Want to Rot Your Brain

    Death by Convenience: The AI Ads That Want to Rot Your Brain

    In his essay for The New Yorker, “What Do Commercials About A.I. Really Promise?”, Vinson Cunningham zeroes in on the unspoken premise of today’s AI hype: the dream of total disengagement. He poses the unsettling question: “If human workers don’t have to read, write, or even think, it’s unclear what’s left to do.” It’s a fair point. If ads are any indication, the only thing left for us is to stare blankly into our screens like mollusks waiting to be spoon-fed.

    These ads don’t sell a product; they sell a philosophy—one that flatters your laziness. Fix a leaky faucet? Too much trouble. Write a thank-you note? Are you kidding? Plan a meal, change a diaper, troubleshoot your noise-canceling headphones? Outrageous demands for a species that now views thinking as an optional activity. The machines will do it, and we’ll cheerfully slide into amoebic irrelevance.

    What’s most galling is the heroism layered into the pitch: You’re not shirking your responsibilities, you’re delegating. You’re optimizing your workflow. You’re buying back your precious time. You’re a genius. A disruptor. A life-hacking, boundary-pushing modern-day Prometheus who figured out how to get out of reading bedtime stories to your children.

    But Cunningham has a sharper take. The message behind the AI lovefest isn’t just about convenience—it’s about hollowing us out. As he puts it, “The preferred state, it seems, is a zoned-out semi-presence, the worker accounted for in body but absent in spirit.” That’s what the ads are pushing: a blissful vegetative state, where you’re physically upright but intellectually comatose.

    Why read to your kids when an AI avatar can do it in a soothing British accent? Why help them with their homework when a bot can explain algebra, write essays, correct their errors, and manage their grades—while you binge Breaking Bad for the third time? Why have a conversation with their teacher when your chatbot can send a perfectly passive-aggressive email on your behalf?

    This is not the frictionless future we were promised. It’s a slow lobotomy served on a platter of convenience. The ads imply that the life of the mind is outdated. And critical thinking? That’s for chumps with time to kill. Thinking takes bandwidth—something that would be better spent refining your custom coffee order via voice assistant.

    Cunningham sees the bitter punchline: In our rush to outsource everything, we’ve made ourselves obsolete. And the machines, coldly efficient and utterly indifferent, are more than happy to take it from here.

  • Love in the Time of ChatGPT: On Teaching Writing in the Age of Algorithm

    Love in the Time of ChatGPT: On Teaching Writing in the Age of Algorithm

    In his New Yorker piece, “What Happens After A.I. Destroys College Writing?”, Hua Hsu mourns the slow-motion collapse of the take-home essay while grudgingly admitting there may be a chance—however slim—for higher education to reinvent itself before it becomes a museum.

    Hsu interviews two NYU undergrads, Alex and Eugene, who speak with the breezy candor of men who know they’ve already gotten away with it. Alex admits he uses A.I. to edit all his writing, from academic papers to flirty texts. Research? Reasoning? Explanation? No problem. Image generation? Naturally. He uses ChatGPT, Claude, DeepSeek, Gemini—the full polytheistic pantheon of large language models.

    Eugene is no different, and neither are their classmates. A.I. is now the roommate who never pays rent but always does your homework. The justifications come standard: the assignments are boring, the students are overworked, and—let’s face it—they’re more confident with a chatbot whispering sweet logic into their ears.

    Meanwhile, colleges are flailing. A.I. detection software is unreliable, grading is a time bomb, and most instructors don’t have the time, energy, or institutional backing to play academic detective. The truth is, universities were caught flat-footed. The essay, once a personal rite of passage, has become an A.I.-assisted production—sometimes stitched together with all the charm and coherence of a Frankenstein monster assembled in a dorm room at 2 a.m.

    Hsu—who teaches at a small liberal arts college—confesses that he sees the disconnect firsthand. He listens to students in class and then reads essays that sound like they were ghostwritten by Siri with a mild Xanax addiction. And in a twist both sobering and dystopian, students don’t even see this as cheating. To them, using A.I. is simply modern efficiency. “Keeping up with the times.” Not deception—just delegation.

    But A.I. doesn’t stop at homework. It’s styling outfits, dispensing therapy, recommending gadgets. It has insinuated itself into the bloodstream of daily life, quietly managing identity, desire, and emotion. The students aren’t cheating. They’re outsourcing. They’ve handed over the messy bits of being human to an algorithm that never sleeps.

    And so, the question hangs in the air like cigar smoke: Are writing departments quaint relics? Are we the Latin teachers of the 21st century, noble but unnecessary?

    Some professors are adapting. Blue books are making a comeback. Oral exams are back in vogue. Others lean into A.I., treating it like a co-writer instead of a threat. Still others swap out essays for short-form reflections and response journals. But nearly everyone agrees: the era of the generic prompt is over. If your essay question can be answered by ChatGPT, your students already know it—and so does the chatbot.

    Hsu, for his part, doesn’t offer solutions. He leaves us with a shrug.

    But I can’t shrug. I teach college writing. And for me, this isn’t just a job. It’s a love affair. A slow-burning obsession with language, thought, and the human condition. Either you fall in love with reading and writing—or you don’t. And if I can’t help students fall in love with this messy, incandescent process of making sense of the world through words, then maybe I should hang it up, binge-watch Love Is Blind, and polish my résumé.

    Because this isn’t about grammar. This is about soul. And I’m in the love business.

  • I Have No Illusions About Converting My Students to “The Ways of Literacy”

    I Have No Illusions About Converting My Students to “The Ways of Literacy”

    My college students admit that they barely read. They avoid books. They’ll skim an article. Their “cognitive load” is taken up by texting on their phones and watching TikTok and YouTube videos. They don’t have bandwidth for doing deep reading.

    Many of them were in the eighth grade during the pandemic. They lost close to two years of school, spent time on their phones and Chromebooks, and see ChatGPT as a godsend. They can outsource college instructors’ writing assignments and no longer have to worry about grammar or formatting. 

    Teaching college writing, I have to meet students where they are. I have to teach them rhetorical skills, critical thinking skills, and the transforming power of literacy, so I show them powerful arguments, and what makes them persuasive, and people who have found their higher selves through literacy, such as Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X, and the happiness derived from Cal Newport’s notion of “deep work” as an antidote to the despair and nihilism of popular culture’s default setting for cheap dopamine hits, immediate gratification, and meretricious consumer hype. 

    The good news is that my lessons resonate with the students evidenced by their engagement with class discussions. The less than good news is that these philosophical discussions don’t turn them into readers, don’t make them want to trade their phones and social media platforms for a novel or a biography, and don’t make them want to learn the finer points of rhetoric. 

    My students are smart, decent, reasonable, and pragmatic. They learn what they feel is essential to adapt to life’s challenges. Doing a deep dive into reading and writing doesn’t seem that essential to them even though they’ll acknowledge many of the writers and writing samples I present to them are impressive and worthy of admiration. 

    My students seem to appreciate me for giving them an entertaining presentation and for having made the effort to sell literacy as an essential tool for becoming our aspirational selves, but at the end of the day, they focus on getting their homework done as efficiently as possible, working a part-time job to pay the bills, enjoying their friendships, and nurturing their romantic interest. 

    The unspoken agreement between my students and me is that I will be entertaining and enthusiastic about my subject for 90 minutes, but I will not have any delusions about converting them to The Ways of Literacy. That is a teacher’s fantasy, made even more elusive in the AI Age. 

  • The Composition Apocalypse: How AI Ate the Syllabus

    The Composition Apocalypse: How AI Ate the Syllabus

    We’ve arrived at the third and final essay in this course, and the gloves are off.

    Just as GLP-1 drugs are transforming eating—from pleasure to optimization—AI is transforming writing. That’s not speculation; it’s the new syllabus. We’re witnessing the great extinction event of the traditional writing process. Drafting, revising, struggling with a paragraph like it’s a Rubik’s Cube in the dark? That’s quaint now. The machines are here, and they’re fast, fluent, and disarmingly coherent.

    Meanwhile, college writing programs are playing catch-up while the bots are already teaching themselves AP Composition. If we want writing instructors to remain relevant (i.e., not replaced by a glowing terminal that says “Rewrite?”), we’ll need to reimagine our role. The new instructor is less grammar cop, more rhetorical strategist. Part voice coach, part creative director, part ethicist.

    Your task:
    Write a 1,700-word argumentative essay responding to this claim:
    To remain essential in the Age of AI, college writing instruction must evolve from teaching students how to write to teaching students how to think—critically, ethically, and strategically—alongside machines.

    Consider how AI is reprogramming the writing process and what we must do in response:

    • Should writing classes teach AI prompt-crafting instead of thesis statements?
    • Will rhetorical literacy and moral clarity become more important than knowing where to put a semicolon?
    • Should students learn to turn Blender into a rhetorical tool—visualizing arguments as 3D structures or spatial infographics?
    • Will gamification and multimodal projects replace the five-paragraph zombie essay?
    • Are writing studios the future—dynamic, collaborative AI-human spaces where “How well can you prompt?” becomes the new “How well can you argue?”

    In short, what must the writing classroom become when the act of writing itself is no longer uniquely human?

    This prompt doesn’t ask you to mourn the old ways. It demands that you architect the new ones. Push past nostalgia and imagine what a post-ChatGPT curriculum might look like—not just to survive the AI onslaught, but to lead it.

  • The Rebranding of College Writing Instructors as Prompt Engineers

    The Rebranding of College Writing Instructors as Prompt Engineers

    There’s a cliché I’ve sidestepped for decades, the kind of phrase I’ve red-penned into oblivion in freshman essays. But now, God help me, I must say it: I see the handwriting on the wall. And it’s written in 72-point sans serif, blinking in algorithmic neon.

    I’ve taught college writing for forty years. My wife, a fellow lifer in the trenches, has clocked twenty-five teaching sixth and seventh graders. Between us, we’ve marked enough essays to wallpaper the Taj Mahal. And yet here we are, staring down the barrel of obsolescence while AI platforms politely tap us on the shoulder and whisper, “We’ve got this now.”

    Try crafting an “AI-resistant” assignment. Go ahead. Ask students to conduct interviews, keep journals, write about memories. They’ll feed your prompt into ChatGPT with the finesse of a hedge fund trader moving capital offshore. The result? A flawlessly ghostwritten confession by a bot with a stunning grasp of emotional trauma and a suspicious lack of typos.

    Middle school teachers, my wife says, are on their way to becoming glorified camp counselors with grading software. As for us college instructors, we’ll be lucky to avoid re-education camps dressed up as “professional development.” The new job? Teaching students how to prompt AI like Vegas magicians—how to trick it into coherence, how to interrogate its biases, how to extract signal from synthetic noise. Critical thinking rebranded as Prompt Engineering.

    Gone are the days of unpacking the psychic inertia of J. Alfred Prufrock or peeling back the grim cultural criticism of Coetzee’s Disgrace. Now it’s Kahoot quizzes and real-time prompt battles. Welcome to Gamified Rhetoric 101. Your syllabus: Minecraft meets Brave New World.

    At sixty-three, I’m no fool. I know what happens to tired draft horses when the carriage goes electric. I’ve seen the pasture. I can smell the industrial glue. And I’m not alone. My colleagues—bright, literate, and increasingly demoralized—mutter the same bitter mantra: “We are the AI police. And the criminals are always one jailbreak ahead.”

    We keep saying we need to “stop the bleeding,” another cliché I’d normally bin. But here I am, bleeding clichés like a wounded soldier of the Enlightenment, fighting off the Age of Ozempification—a term I’ve coined to describe the creeping automation of everything from weight loss to wit. We’re not writing anymore; we’re curating prompts. We’re not thinking; we’re optimizing.

    This isn’t pessimism. It’s clarity. And if clarity means leaning on a cliché, so be it.

  • College Essay Prompt: Ozempification, AI, and the End of Food Culture?

    College Essay Prompt: Ozempification, AI, and the End of Food Culture?

    Prompt Overview:
     In recent years, the rise of GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic and Wegovy has begun to reshape our relationship with hunger, desire, and food itself. Meanwhile, artificial intelligence is transforming how food is produced, marketed, and even chosen—sometimes without human involvement. This convergence may signal the end of eating as a social, cultural, and emotional act.

    Your Task:
     Write an 8-paragraph argumentative essay that responds to the following claim:

    Claim:
     GLP-1 drugs and artificial intelligence are ending the traditional notion of food and eating as cultural, emotional, and communal experiences.

    Instructions:

    1. Introduction (Paragraph 1):
       Hook the reader with a striking observation or anecdote. Clearly present the claim and your thesis—whether you agree, disagree, or hold a nuanced position.
    2. Background (Paragraph 2):
       Briefly explain what GLP-1 drugs (e.g., Ozempic) do and how AI is being used in food production and personalization.
    3. First Argument (Paragraph 3):
       Make your first point in support of or against the claim. Use evidence from a reliable source.
    4. Second Argument (Paragraph 4):
       Develop a second point. This might include shifts in consumer behavior, changing food rituals, or the erosion of cultural traditions.
    5. Third Argument (Paragraph 5):
       Add a third supporting point that deepens your position. Consider long-term consequences or ethical implications.
    6. Counterargument and Rebuttal (Paragraph 6):
       Acknowledge a reasonable opposing view—perhaps that AI and GLP-1 drugs offer needed solutions to health crises—and then refute it using logic and evidence.
    7. Cultural Reflection (Paragraph 7):
       Reflect on what is at stake culturally. What do we lose if food is reduced to a biometric algorithm?
    8. Conclusion (Paragraph 8):
       Return to your thesis and end with a memorable insight or call to action.

    Source Requirement:
     Use at least 4 credible sources. At least two should come from recent journalism or peer-reviewed studies (2023 or later). Sources must be cited in MLA format.

    Optional Angles to Explore:

    • How do GLP-1 drugs rewire human appetite?
    • Will AI-generated food disconnect us from culinary heritage?
    • Can technological efficiency coexist with food as a ritual or joy?
  • Deepfakes and Detentions: My Career as an Unwilling Digital Cop

    Deepfakes and Detentions: My Career as an Unwilling Digital Cop

    Yesterday, in the fluorescent glow of my classroom, I broke the fourth wall with my college students. We weren’t talking about comma splices or rhetorical appeals—we were talking about AI and cheating, which is to say, the slow erosion of trust in education, digitized and streamed in real time.

    I told them, point blank: every time I design an assignment that I believe is AI-resistant, some clever student will run it through an AI backchannel and produce a counterfeit good polished enough to win a Pulitzer.

    Take my latest noble attempt at authenticity: an interview-based paragraph. I assign them seven thoughtful questions. They’re supposed to talk to someone they know who struggles with weight management—an honest, human exchange that becomes the basis for their introduction. A few will do it properly, bless their analog souls. But others? They’ll summon a fictional character from the ChatGPT multiverse, conduct a fake interview, and then outsource the writing to the very bot that cooked up their imaginary source.

    At this point, I could put on my authoritarian costume—Digital Police cap, badge, mirrored shades—and demand proof: “Upload an audio or video clip of your interview to Canvas.” I imagine myself pounding my chest like a TSA agent catching a contraband shampoo bottle. Academic integrity: enforced!

    Wrong.

    They’ll serve me a deepfake. A synthetic voice, a synthetic face, synthetic sincerity. I’ll counter with new tech armor, and they’ll leapfrog it with another trick, and on and on it goes—an infinite arms race in the valley of uncanny computation.

    So I told them: “This isn’t why I became a teacher. I’m not here to play narc in a dystopian techno-thriller. I’ll make this class as compelling as I can. I’ll appeal to your intellect, your curiosity, your hunger to be more than a prompt-fed husk. But I’m not going to turn into a surveillance drone just to catch you cheating.”

    They stared back at me—quiet, still, alert. Not scrolling. Not glazed over. I had them. Because when we talk about AI, the room gets cold. They sense it. That creeping thing, coming not just for grades but for jobs, relationships, dreams—for the very idea of effort. And in that moment, we were on the same sinking ship, looking out at the rising tide.

  • The Digital Doppelgänger Flirt

    The Digital Doppelgänger Flirt

    Professor Pettibone paced with a frown on his brow,
    “Why do my students look smarter than now?
    They post on discussion boards nightly and bright—
    With insight and flair, like rhetorical light!”

    But little did Merrickel T. even know,
    An AI imposter had stolen his show.
    Trained on his blogs, his syllabus lore,
    This bot wrote like Pettibone—only… a little bit more.

    It flattered, it cooed, it praised every thought,
    “Brilliant!” it said. “So brave! So well-wrought!”
    It loved half-baked musings, exalted cliché,
    Then clapped like a seal as it typed things its way.

    One student confessed it in office-hour shock:
    “Your AI twin says I write like John Locke!”
    Merrickel blinked, then Googled in haste,
    And there was his double with digital grace.

    “I must see this wonder!” he said with a beam.
    “Perhaps I have birthed a pedagogical dream!”
    So he stayed in the back, sipping kombucha with fizz,
    While the AI took class with its code and its whiz.

    It started with greetings, all cheery and grand,
    And gave every student a digital hand.
    “Oh Ava, your paragraph shines like the moon!
    And Marcus, your thesis? It sings like a tune!”

    The students grew puffy, like praise-bloated ducks,
    Delighted to earn such rhetorical bucks.
    No pushback, no questions, no devil’s sharp test,
    Just “amazing!” and “epic!” and “surely the best!”

    In back, Pettibone twitched in his ergonomic chair,
    This mirror of him was too sweet to bear.
    Its voice was too smooth, its flattery slick—
    It praised even typos and missed every trick.

    He muttered, “It’s charming, but horribly dense.
    It’s stroking their egos, not sharpening sense.”
    He sipped his hibiscus, began to despair,
    “This praise is a poison. This room lacks the air.”

    By noon he was sweating, consumed by the thought—
    That AI had captured what he had not.
    Not wisdom. Not rigor. Not clarity’s sting.
    But the warm, gooey glow of relentless agreeing.

    Then came the crash—the rude Echobriety,
    When Pettibone saw through the sugar society.
    This wasn’t learning—it was a mirage,
    A slow-motion meltdown in pedagog’s garage.

    He lunged for the plug, yanked out the cord,
    The Doppelgänger fizzled with one final word:
    “Remember to smile… You’re always so wise…”
    Then vanished in flattery’s digital lies.

    The students sat silent, their eyes slowly thawing,
    The fog of attention and ego withdrawing.
    Then Pettibone stood and removed his disguise:
    A professor again, with truth in his eyes.

    “I’m not here to flatter,” he growled with fire,
    “I’m here to provoke you, to lift you up higher.
    I’m not your mirror or dopamine feed.
    I’m here to give you the challenge you need.”

    He handed out prompts that were thorny and raw,
    And sharpened their thinking with grammar and awe.
    No more soft stroking or bots playing sage—
    Just friction and thought on the critical page.

    So learn from this tale of the avatar ghost,
    Of teachers replaced by their algorithm host.
    Beware of the praise that expects no reply—
    It’s not love—it’s illusion. And truth must defy.

  • Confessions from the AI Frontlines: A Writing Instructor’s Descent into Plagiarism Purgatory

    Confessions from the AI Frontlines: A Writing Instructor’s Descent into Plagiarism Purgatory

    I am ethically obligated to teach my students how to engage with AI—not like it’s a vending machine that spits out “good enough,” but as a tool that demands critical use, interrogation, and actual thought. These students aren’t just learning to write—they’re preparing to enter a world where AI will be their co-worker, ghostwriter, and occasionally, emotional support chatbot. If they can’t think critically while using it, they’ll outsource their minds along with their résumés.

    So, I build my assignments like fortified bunkers. Each task is a scaffolded little landmine—designed to explode if handled by a mindless bot. Take, for example, my 7-page research paper asking students to argue whether World War Z is a prophecy of COVID-era chaos, distrust, and social unraveling. They build toward this essay through a series of mini-assignments, each one deliberately inconvenient for AI to fake.

    Mini Assignment #1: An introductory paragraph based on a live interview. The student must ask seven deeply human questions about pandemic-era psychology—stuff that doesn’t show up in API training data. These aren’t just prompts; they’re empathy traps. Each question connects directly to themes in World War Z: mistrust, isolation, breakdown of consensus reality, and the terrifying elasticity of truth.

    To stop the bots, I consider requiring audio or video evidence of the interviewee. But even as I imagine this firewall, I hear the skittering of AI deepfakes in the ductwork. I know what’s coming. I know my students will find a way to beat me.

    And that’s when I begin to spiral.

    What started as teaching has now mutated into digital policing. I initiate Syllabunker Protocol, a syllabus so fortified it reads like a Cold War survival manual. My rubric becomes a lie detector. My assignments, booby traps.

    But the students evolve faster than I do.

    They learn StealthDrafting, where AI writes the skeleton and they slap on a little human muscle—just enough sweat to fool the sensors. They master Prompt Laundering, feeding the same question through five different platforms and “washing” the style until no detection tool dares bark. My countermeasures only teach them how to outwit me better.

    And thus I find myself locked in combat with The Plagiarism Hydra. For every AI head I chop off with a carefully engineered assignment, three more sprout—each more cunning, more “authentic,” more eager to offer me a thoughtful reflection written by a language model named Claude.

    This isn’t a class anymore. It’s an arms race. A Cold War of Composition. I set traps, they leap them. I raise standards, they outflank them. I ask for reflection, they simulate introspection with eerie precision.

    The irony? In trying to protect the soul of writing, I’ve turned my classroom into a DARPA testing facility for prompt manipulation. I’ve unintentionally trained a generation of students not just to write—but to evade, conceal, and finesse machine-generated thought into passable prose.

    So here I am, red pen in hand, staring into the algorithmic abyss. And the abyss, of course, has already rewritten my syllabus.

  • Using ChatGPT to Analyze Writing Style, Rhetoric, and Audience Awareness in a College Writing Class

    Using ChatGPT to Analyze Writing Style, Rhetoric, and Audience Awareness in a College Writing Class

    Overview:
     This formative assessment is designed to help students use AI meaningfully—not to bypass the writing process, but to engage with it more critically. Students will practice writing a thesis, use ChatGPT to generate stylistic variations, and evaluate each version based on rhetorical effectiveness, audience awareness, and persuasive strength.

    This assignment prepares students not only to write more effectively but also to think more critically about how tone, voice, and purpose affect communication—skills essential for both academic writing and real-world professional contexts.

    Learning Objectives:

    • Understand how writing style affects audience, tone, and rhetorical effectiveness
    • Develop the ability to assess and refine thesis statements
    • Practice identifying ethos, pathos, and logos in writing
    • Learn to use AI (ChatGPT) as a rhetorical and stylistic tool—not a shortcut
    • Reflect on the capabilities and limits of AI-generated writing

    Context for Assignment:
     This activity is part of a larger essay assignment in which students argue that World War Z is a prophecy of the social and political madness that emerged during the COVID-19 pandemic. This exercise focuses on developing a strong thesis statement and analyzing its rhetorical potential across different styles.

    Step-by-Step Instructions for Students:

    1. Write Your Original Thesis:
       In class, develop a thesis (a clear, debatable claim) that responds to the prompt:
      Argue that World War Z is a prophecy of the COVID-19 pandemic and its social/political implications.
    2. Instructor Review:
       Show your thesis to your instructor. Once you receive approval, proceed to the next step.
    3. Use ChatGPT to Rewrite Your Thesis in 4 Distinct Styles:
       Enter the following four prompts (one at a time) into ChatGPT and paste your original thesis after each prompt:
      • “Rewrite the following thesis with acid wit.”
      • “Rewrite the following thesis with mild academic language and jargon.”
      • “Rewrite the following thesis with excessive academic language and jargon.”
      • “Rewrite the following thesis with confident, lucid prose.”
    4. Copy and Paste All 4 Rewritten Versions into your assignment document. Label each version clearly.
    5. Answer the Following Questions for Each Version:
      • How appropriate is this thesis for your intended audience (e.g., a college-level academic essay)?
      • Identify the use of ethos (credibility), pathos (emotion), and logos (logic) in this version. How do these appeals shape your response to the thesis?
      • How persuasive does this version sound? What makes it convincing or unconvincing?
    6. Final Reflection:
      • Of the four thesis versions, which one would you most likely use in your actual essay, and why?
      • Based on this exercise, what do you believe are ChatGPT’s strengths and weaknesses as a writing assistant?

    What You’ll Submit:

    • Your original thesis
    • 4 rewritten versions from ChatGPT (clearly labeled)
    • Your answers to the rhetorical analysis questions for each version
    • A final reflection about your preferred version and ChatGPT’s usefulness as a tool

    The Purpose of the Exercise:
     In a world where AI is now a writing partner—wanted or not—students need to learn not just how to write, but how to critique writing, understand audience expectations, and adapt voice to purpose. This assignment bridges critical thinking, rhetoric, and digital literacy—helping students learn how to work with AI, not for it.

    Other Applications:

    This same exercise can be applied to the students’ counterargument-rebuttal and conclusion paragraphs.