I KNEW IT!

Thank you to Finucane for this explanation about why the educational system is a mess:

I have a Economics test tomorrow that is worth a massive chunk of my grade. Shall I bother cramming and pulling and all nighter?

“C” is for…….

An old friend of mine, who completed law school years ago–and therefore understands the intricacies of detesting grad school–asked me how B-school was treating me. Keep in mind as you’re reading, I would say that this individual is in the top 3 of the smartest people I have ever known.

LoveMeDeux: I live a quite singular lifestyle…I remember you talking about your days just studying until you couldn’t stand the sight of the inside of your apartment anymore–remember that feeling? Yeah, that’s me now.

Counselor: Yeah, I hear the first year blows and the second year is schmoozing for a gig.

LoveMeDeux: I studied for a test until I was bleeding from my eyeballs–and all I got was a C+. But really, who cares? I realised that midway through 1st year (me right now), you stop giving a feck about the grade, and you just want to survive. That’s when I calmed down and began to enjoy learning. But of course, I learned the tough way–hyperventilating at every grade/paper/test the first trimester.

Counselor: Yeah, I did not give a shit about my grades in law school, graduated just under the 50% mark even with being Dean’s List for four semesters…and I enjoyed myself. Unlike the other douchebags in my class.

Relax. Remember, “C” is for graduate!

Now that, haha, is the best rule of thumb that any former grad student has ever passed down to me!

On The Next Episode of “MBA Creek”.

MBA Update:
Second Trimester, Halfway Point. First, the business end of the deal:

Economics. I love this class.

The prof is a total hardass during class, but after class is when he is the most fun.  I almost always am sucked into staying afterwards and chatting with him a bit.

He’s 72 years old. I hope when I’m 72, I’m half as lucid, and half as much fun.

He doesn’t do the grading himself, as he’d rather spend his days writing recommendation letters, answering calls from old students, etc. He doesn’t give a shit what you get in the class, really, as long as you get it. He’s said “I don’t care if you memorize elasticity formula for the duration of the test, then forget it. Just remember elasticity.”

Tonight I realized for the first time that I was getting dirty looks from my classmates, and not the good kind.

The prof asked “Who knows what is the rite of ‘First Night’”?

And without thinking I raised my hand, he called on me andI blurted out “Do you mean ‘Prima Nocte‘?”

And he said “Precisely”.

And then I got the dirty look from classmates that you get when you realise you’re the teacher’s pet.

Oops.

Maybe I should shut my mouth and not let anyone else know that I know a little Latin.

I wasn’t trying to be a douchebag, I swear! I am just a fucking WikipediaGeek. And it doesn’t end there–it is also apparently bad that I know a little history.

He’s like “So, of course, this bastard child is angry at his feudal lord of a father and goes pillaging the English countryside in revenge, and then, when he kills the King of the land he no longer is ‘Willy the Bastard’ and becomes–?”

I raised my hand and said “William the Conqueror“?

And yes, again, the dirty looks.

It’s not my fault that i’m too nerdy for my own good.

Ok..yes it is.

As for the dirty look-giving classmates, after the past three weeks of “MBA Drama” i don’t want any part of “MBA Creek“.

I didn’t sign up for an MBA program so I can play a character in a fecking CW drama.

Tonight, as I was leaving the campus, I came outside, and they were standing there, smoking their lungs into the black.

“Heyyyy how are you?” they call out.

“Great! Bye!” I say with a smile, a wave, and I veer off to my car. I didn’t come within 10 feet of them. I’m not a bitch–I have my reasons:

On the previous episode of “MBA Creek”…

I know what you’re thinking: No, I haven’t have sex with any of my classmates. And I intend to keep it that way.

And of course, not surprisingly, the drama I speak of is because two people did f*ck. And in turn, it’s fucking with the group dynamic.

So. Two people f*ck, they don’t tell anyone. The Girl thinks it means he wants to marry her. Girl has told me she is here doing her MBA mainly because she wants her MRS degree. The Boy thinks she just wants a good lay every once in a while.

Then Girl gets very chilly to every other female classmate who flirts with or talks to the boy…innocently enough, of course, because they don’t know the true nature of the relationship between Girl and Boy. The other women have no idea that Girl and Boy are f*cking on the regular. Stupid, unfair.

And of course Boy wants more than one regular lay, so he still flirts with all those other girls, in and out of class, regardless of the level of alcohol consumption.

And so the drama ensues.

Unfortunately for me, I was one of several targets of Boy’s advances and flirting. It’s not that difficult to figure it out—I am single, not a wallflower, and not totally unattractive. Also, Boy is just naturally flirtatious, and it’s fairly harmless fun. But once you a) cross that line where Girl has expectations of you that it’s serious, b) you don’t bother setting her straight, and c) you realize that she’s exhibiting jealous tendencies that stand to ruin the entire group dynamic, this, in my estimation, is disgusting. Almost the perfect definition of shitting where you sleep.

So it’s not long before Girl started to disinclude me, the other girls that her Boy flirts with, and my BFF, (who is being disincluded merely by being associated with me), from outings on purpose. What a dramamongerer. After this incident, I don’t speak to Boy or Girl unless I absolutely must. It’s working out great for me so far.

Meanwhile, on the other side of “MBA Creek”..my TA is hitting on me.

I know it isn’t illegal or immoral for a TA and a student to date, but I feel it’s still not kosher. Anyhow, machts nichts, as this TA is just not my type.

Nonetheless, he texts me at 1am. :/

I ignored them, and after a while, he got the hint.

Wasn’t there an episode of “Felicity” where her RA hit on her? After the previous proof that my campus life was turning into “Dawson’s Creek“, I was totally prepared me for my TA hitting on me. Like, I didn’t even bat an eyelash.

Just goes to remind me: in the wide world out there, there’s more chaff than there is wheat. And unfortunately, in my MBA program, there’s a lot more chaff than I originally estimated. Sad & true.

Grad Student Blues: A Fauxku

f**k i could have drunk tonight
all my friends are at Oktoberfest
and here i am
all alone aside from my fecking Economics book
and Stephen Colbert
and an old friend via IM who
i’d rather be s**king or f**king
but sadly, to quote facebook,
“it’s complicated”

(FML)10²

Does my readership know what “FML” means? If not, here is a primer. Imagine yourself in this situation, and you will be able to derive the correct definition for that acronym.

• First, you study for 4 days straight for a test on Monday night.
  • You even skip out on an epic party on Saturday night to do so.
• Next, you hear from your tutor, who happens to be the professor’s own daughter, that there will be very, very little math on the test. So little math, that there will be no time to have to make a schedule or draw a graph.
• Then, you study all day on Monday. You and your friends don’t joke, don’t laugh. You just cram from 11am-6pm, 7 hours of brutal, good old-fashioned cramming.
  • In the midst of all the madness, you forget to check to see if your 3-year old Blackberry battery is on full charge. (In the film industry, they call this small fact that seems insignificant at the beginning of the story a “plant & promise”. So hang on, the climax is going to be brilliant!)
  • You are nearly braindead after all this cramming, but you don’t stop, afraid that if you stop cramming, it will “fall out” of your head.
• The test arrives in front of you.
  • There is a WHOLE PAGE OF MATH.
  • You must make a schedule.
  • You must graph.
• You get your test back at the end of the night–you score a 76%, a fucking C.
  • You want to cry, but your pride won’t let you.
  • You are totally disappointed in yourself–after a full 4 days of cramming, how, just HOW is this possible?!!!
• You go outside after class, and your friends ask you what you got, but you actually tell them you don’t want to share.
  • One particular classmate is persistent in asking your grade–it’s because he got a 65%.
    • You feel 0.0000001% better at this news, but only because he is a user, and generally not a nice person.
      • You were victim to his insensitivities and “using” at least twice during last term.
• You wait for the insensitive “friends” to leave, and wait for your two best friends to come downstairs from talking with the professor.
  • You nearly cry, again.
    • You remind your BFFs that you just bombed your first Accounting test.
  • They tell you it’s not so bad. They remind you that you could have been the 65% person.
    • They remind you that if you do all the homework and turn it in, that’s equivalent to getting two “100%” on two tests.
      • You have done all of the homework for credit thus far.
  • You still don’t feel great, but you feel 0.000000001% better.
  • You all say goodnight and go home.
• You seriously consider going to the liquor store to purchase a bottle of Tanqueray.
  • You decide that that’s probably not such a good idea, seeing as how there is Accounting homework to do tomorrow.
• You decide to go to Del Taco instead.

Wait–at this point in the story you think, well, that’s not so bad–some late night fast food, a C grade, but there’s homework points to redeem you, still on track overall–that’s not so bad!

• On the way out of Del Taco, you hear a strange “drrrrrrrRRRRR” sound from your left, front wheelwell.
  • You know what it is. You’re in denial for a moment, but oh, you know what it is.
• You immediately claw at the inside console of your car in the darkness searching for your Blackberry–
  • As if on cue:
  • Wait for it, wait for it…
    • “Battery drained. Shutting down handheld.”
• FUCK.
• MY.
• LIFE.
• !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

Now wait, I don’t think that you’re getting the gravity of the situation, readership. So let me

• Recap:
  • It’s 11:30pm
    • Your professor lectured for 3 hours after the fucking exam, letting you out 30 minutes past the normal time of going home.
  • You’re fucking afraid you’ll get kicked out of your MBA program for not maintaining a 3.0 gpa
  • And now
    • Your cell phone dies?
    • Just as you realise your TIRE IS FLAT?!
      • In a deserted suburban area, where everyone has gone to bed about 3 hours ago?!

Friends, this is the definition of “FML”. Fuck my life.

Epilogue:

I waved down some random guy–I know, this was a stupid choice, he could have been the next BTK killer, but I am wearing heels, friends, I didn’t want to hike it down the road several miles to the police station–just to ask him if I could borrow his mobile phone. I told him that I got a C on my test, I hated life at the moment, and my tire is flat. Not in that order, but that was the suggested order of importance.

He told me to pull over, and after looking at my tire, he says, “Listen, I want you to get in your car, lock the doors, and wait for me. I live down the street, and I am going to get some shoes on [he's wearing sandals], and I will be right back.”

I thought he wasn’t going to come back.

Then I recalled that he was wearing a tee that said “Straight Edge” on it. Chances are, he’d come back.

He did come back.

He gets out of his truck and the first thing he does is pull out his wallet. He show an ID badge in it–LA County Sheriff’s ID badge.

He adds, as if I didn’t already surmise it from his smile and his general “nice guy” demeanor: “You are safe.”

I said, “Thank you. I appreciate it. And just to prove that I’m not a completely useless damsel in distress, I took out my spare, my jack, and tools.” I pointed at my handiwork. At least I can do that, because apparently, I suck at Economic and Maths.

He gestures to my button-down shirt, heels and pearls. He said, “You’re dressed so nicely, you could have left me to do it?”

“Whatever,” I wave my hand. “I’m not afraid of dirt.” I realise something about myself at this moment:

I hate hate not being in control. The worst part of the whole flat tire business was not that I was tired, nor that I had a shitty day, nor that I was inconvenienced, and my Del Taco was getting cold in the car.

No–the worst part was not being able to control my fate by having neither a working mobile phone, nor a working vehicle. It was the fact that I had to rely upon the kindnesses of a total stranger to fix this situation. Because I’m unfamiliar with the process of changing a tire, the compensatory action of unloading the spare and the tools makes me feel I’ve regained a little bit of control.

He hands me his MagLite, and we were in business.

I got back into my car about half past midnight–I gave him my card, and hopefully the thing that will make this less of a FML night: I have a new friend. I speak out the requisite volley of “Thank you so muches” and “Please, I owe you a dinners”. He says,

“If it were my girlfriend, sister or mom, I would hope that someone stops to help them, so, you know, I try to do the same.”

I feel slightly shitty at this simple revelation–here I am bitching about a 76% on one test, and Justin Ramos is getting all philosophical on me. Dangit! Why couldn’t he just let me wallow in my stagnating pool of self-serving sympathy?

I reach for and shake his hand, despite the fact that he protests initially, due to the grease and grime from my tire.

“I’m not afraid of dirt,” I say again, this time, trying to flash a bigger, more appreciative smile.

The Moral of The Story?
If you’re upset, don’t go to Del Taco to gorge yourself on shitty fast food–go to the liquor store instead and get you some Tanqueray.