I just spent the morning writing a letter to a student to tell her that DUDE, it’s been three weeks and I am not extending this motherfucking exam deadline for you anymore.
I believe all her relatives have now died and she has had every illness known to man. It’s quite remarkable the way god hates her so much.
Posted by Melissa on March 20th, 2007 under Histoire d'Art
You know, my second quarter at UCLA was completely ridiculous this way: people did die; my parents were on the verge of divorce and I was living at home to keep them from killing each other while working and attending school full time; I did get terribly sick; etc. I had this one English prof, a visiting instructor, who seemed pretty sure I was lying all the time but was very good natured about it. It got to the point where I would tell her what awful thing had prevented me from completing this week’s paper, and we would both be trying really hard to suppress laughter — for different reasons. Yet she was always kind anyway, and always let me take the time I needed.
I got into a car accident the weekend before finals. When I showed up in Dr. Brodsky’s office to beg for mercy one last time with a stitched-together forehead and my arm in a cast, I wish I could say that we couldn’t hold it back any longer and both dissolved into giggles, but honestly, what with the brand new head injury I had just sustained and all, I just don’t remember anymore. She sure did teach me some literature, though, things which, like her name, I’ve remembered in spite of the head injury, and I wrote very well for her. I don’t remember anything taught in any of my other classes that quarter, not one thing, nor do I remember the name of a single other professor.
This story, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with your situation. I just thought you might find it amusing, despite the fact that I have no idea what the point, if any, might be.
March 21st, 2007 at 9:03 am
Oh, you art teaching terrorista! Heh.
March 21st, 2007 at 1:34 pm
Heeheee. I have heard stories of this kind of thing. (Marc’s dad was a chem professor. Apparently a ball-busting one.)
March 21st, 2007 at 2:41 pm
You know, my second quarter at UCLA was completely ridiculous this way: people did die; my parents were on the verge of divorce and I was living at home to keep them from killing each other while working and attending school full time; I did get terribly sick; etc. I had this one English prof, a visiting instructor, who seemed pretty sure I was lying all the time but was very good natured about it. It got to the point where I would tell her what awful thing had prevented me from completing this week’s paper, and we would both be trying really hard to suppress laughter — for different reasons. Yet she was always kind anyway, and always let me take the time I needed.
I got into a car accident the weekend before finals. When I showed up in Dr. Brodsky’s office to beg for mercy one last time with a stitched-together forehead and my arm in a cast, I wish I could say that we couldn’t hold it back any longer and both dissolved into giggles, but honestly, what with the brand new head injury I had just sustained and all, I just don’t remember anymore. She sure did teach me some literature, though, things which, like her name, I’ve remembered in spite of the head injury, and I wrote very well for her. I don’t remember anything taught in any of my other classes that quarter, not one thing, nor do I remember the name of a single other professor.
This story, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with your situation. I just thought you might find it amusing, despite the fact that I have no idea what the point, if any, might be.
March 23rd, 2007 at 8:59 am
You go girl! Let the slacker know who is boss!