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She guilted me into it. She really did.
I go to my 2:20 notetaking appointment because, hey, even though I quit I'm going to keep it honorable and make my jobs for the week. I get to the class a bit early and wait for my assigned student. It's always an interesting guessing game, trying to figure out who's the person with a handicap so bad that they require assistant in lecture. It's not always visible, these things are, so with five minutes left to class I decide to go around asking the females if one of them was the individual I sought. After I ask the third young lady she suggests I just make a general announcement to the class. I was trying to avoid it; sometimes you don't want your neighbors to know that there's something wrong. But, desperate times called for desperate measures: if I didn't find that chick before class started I felt capable of just walking out of the program right then and there. I asked if anyone in the class was named Dora, and one woman told me that she was, in fact, on her way to the class. Dora was a middle-aged woman who fell down and broke her writing arm and, it looked like, by the pained way she was ambulating, her hip. We made our introductions warmly and sincerely, and then we sat down. She was grateful that I was there, and said "It's a great service they're running, isn't it?" I took a glance at her arm and her obvious pain and thought to myself "Fuck." Then sighed, because I knew what I was going to do.
The class itself was funny (unintentionally, I think; the instructor was a spirited but scatterbrained Particle Physicist trying to teach an Introductory Physics course to an obviously confused audience), and Dora was great company. Afterwards I went to CherryAnne's office and asked her if I could retract my notice. She was a little upset, seeing as she'd already started giving some of my assignments away, but said it was okay. So now, instead of having 9.5 hours a week, I'm down to a whopping 4.5. Lovely.
Heh. I met a fellow Ivy Leaguer in my Anatomy lecture, quite by accident. He walked in, sat behind me, and asked if it was, in fact, Bio 120. I said yes, and, feeling both chatty and sarcastic, I pointed him towards the first line of the syllabus he had in his hands, which said Bio 120. Somehow we got around to him saying he was a new student and that he went to Dartmouth, and I was all "Oh shit, another 3rd Tier Ivy in the hiz-ouse" in my head before telling him I'd gone to Brown. He had a job doing some biological work in neighboring Sloan-Kettering, but he apparently didn't finish his major requirements, because he still had to complete Anatomy. I asked him if his bosses knew that he was a fraud and he sort of avoided the question. Ha. Bastid. He doesn't even have a degree and he has a job in his field.
This has been the longest day ever. Started at 7AM and I didn't get home until 10:30PM. I can't believe it's only Tuesday. I don't ever remember school being this hard before. At least I don't have to take Statistics or Math 101. One sliver of light.
I go to my 2:20 notetaking appointment because, hey, even though I quit I'm going to keep it honorable and make my jobs for the week. I get to the class a bit early and wait for my assigned student. It's always an interesting guessing game, trying to figure out who's the person with a handicap so bad that they require assistant in lecture. It's not always visible, these things are, so with five minutes left to class I decide to go around asking the females if one of them was the individual I sought. After I ask the third young lady she suggests I just make a general announcement to the class. I was trying to avoid it; sometimes you don't want your neighbors to know that there's something wrong. But, desperate times called for desperate measures: if I didn't find that chick before class started I felt capable of just walking out of the program right then and there. I asked if anyone in the class was named Dora, and one woman told me that she was, in fact, on her way to the class. Dora was a middle-aged woman who fell down and broke her writing arm and, it looked like, by the pained way she was ambulating, her hip. We made our introductions warmly and sincerely, and then we sat down. She was grateful that I was there, and said "It's a great service they're running, isn't it?" I took a glance at her arm and her obvious pain and thought to myself "Fuck." Then sighed, because I knew what I was going to do.
The class itself was funny (unintentionally, I think; the instructor was a spirited but scatterbrained Particle Physicist trying to teach an Introductory Physics course to an obviously confused audience), and Dora was great company. Afterwards I went to CherryAnne's office and asked her if I could retract my notice. She was a little upset, seeing as she'd already started giving some of my assignments away, but said it was okay. So now, instead of having 9.5 hours a week, I'm down to a whopping 4.5. Lovely.
Heh. I met a fellow Ivy Leaguer in my Anatomy lecture, quite by accident. He walked in, sat behind me, and asked if it was, in fact, Bio 120. I said yes, and, feeling both chatty and sarcastic, I pointed him towards the first line of the syllabus he had in his hands, which said Bio 120. Somehow we got around to him saying he was a new student and that he went to Dartmouth, and I was all "Oh shit, another 3rd Tier Ivy in the hiz-ouse" in my head before telling him I'd gone to Brown. He had a job doing some biological work in neighboring Sloan-Kettering, but he apparently didn't finish his major requirements, because he still had to complete Anatomy. I asked him if his bosses knew that he was a fraud and he sort of avoided the question. Ha. Bastid. He doesn't even have a degree and he has a job in his field.
This has been the longest day ever. Started at 7AM and I didn't get home until 10:30PM. I can't believe it's only Tuesday. I don't ever remember school being this hard before. At least I don't have to take Statistics or Math 101. One sliver of light.
