So yesterday was the last first day of school for me. It could be for ever but might be just for now-we'll have to see about grad school. I hope I go to grad school. If we're being honest, I like school. I enjoy going to new classes, learning random crap, and deciding who will annoy me, who I want to be my friend, and who should just jump into a hole and fail to resurface within a jiffy. I crave the recycled four months that define each new chapter in my life. When will I ever get to dump a new job or boring friends every four months without hobo-ing or receiving hate mail in the near future? The answer: never. I cherish the stomach pangs that will, upon entering a "real" workplace, be turned into blinding monotony. I mean, really-I'd rather have to go to the bathroom than want to electrocute myself solely to feel something, anything.
Speaking of these new classes, I've really seen some interesting people in the last couple days. This post is pretty random and unorganized. Probably. But, as you might have realized, so is my mind. I am enrolled in wheel throwing. We pin the teacher to a dart board and chuck things at her. No. Instead, we perform acts of pottery on a spinning wheel, allowing the wet clay to slap us in the face at the sobering hour of 9 a.m. We do this as a tiny Russian lady lectures with a droning absence of tonality in her voice. I mean, really-our supposedly short syllabus class turned into two painful hours of her reading each and every assignment aloud. Because I'm obviously going to remember what the final exam is. Because I'll never see a copy of the syllabus on my own. Because we will not be able to ask her what the assignment is before each project anyways. Because, as she does the demonstration, we will sew our eyes shut to ensure we have to remember the assignment on our own, without her help. Ok, done with the "becauses." After hearing two hours of these absurdities, she went on to introduce tools for another half hour. And, just as I was ready to rip my eyes out, she announced that we were to go on a tour of the art facility. Upon exiting the building to view the outside kiln, heaven happened. We arose from the darkness like a flock of squinting chiclets. Hurrah, and amen.
Onto the next improperly placed paragraph. Entrepreneurship class happened. I walk into the room to find a man wearing a fat suit. Actually, he just had flab overextending past the acceptable point of his pants. This man was futzing around, asking how to control the school's "damn Mac crap." "I ain't drinking the Kool Aid and you kids suck it down like honeybees on drugs." Ok, that's cool. Then, he begins to tell us his life story. This was when things got good, better than good. Though I am unable to remember the exact details of this ridiculous biography, it went along the lines of this: "I dropped out of college, joined the military, started learning about electronics, was sent to Germany, learned German, taught troops how to break past enemy lines with technology, learned Polish, went to Poland, learned French, went to France, learned Greek, went to Greece, went to spy school, worked for intelligence, started over 20 businesses, went to business school, served on the board of the best international business school in the world, came to UM. What. So, this man who claimed to understand nothing about computers, a man as boisterous and unrestrained as a gnarly chihuahua, hustled us like a herd of double-taking doofuses. *Everything takes one fell swoop over the heads of humanity* His outgoing personality struck me as that of a simple-minded dunce. Wrong I was. Wrong...I was. I always figured that you were either a socially awkward genius or a socially competent moron. Again, wrong. He had the personality of a life-winner capable of schmoozing to anyone with or without a pole up their patooty. I want to be him. I'm staying in the class.
Next paragraph time now. Fiction writing. When ever in your life will you be able to take a fiction writing class with a Hawaiian man so enthused about his life and work that he makes you put your desks in a square? Exactly. I sat down in this class expecting a throng of hippies to materialize before my eyes. I was definitely not wrong. Girl with damn braid down to her knees shimmied past me as her hair slapped me in the face. Bet she hasn't washed that for a decade. *cuts tail off of her face* After a few snotty playwrights and some comic fans introduced themselves, I became intoxicated with vigor. The small Hawaiian professor and my classmates began to talk about every book and series I had never heard of. But, I definitely pretended to know what was up so that I would not seem out of the loop. Favorite book? Named one I read about a year ago. *whew* Some morsels of prerequisite problems arose but were soon taken care of, again, as I pretended to have taken the no-longer-needed prerequisite. *double whew*
Then, art history happened. Then, a somehow douche-bag hipster of a philosophical body-builder felt as though it was his duty to enliven us with his take on contemporary art. This was not the professor. Instead, the professor was a meek woman with great cheekbones. Though she could have easily spoken with a commanding Italian accent to grab our attention, she stuck with the like-a-lamb American countenance. Her choice. I was about to slam my face on the edge of the rounded desk, but then, she said something interesting. She said something that sounded like me, like something that would come out of my twisted noggin. The class shortly spiraled into a series of Katie discussions that I was relishing within. The douche-bag hipster gave counter arguments and I fabricated all of the false correlations I could think of. What a release. I love art and usually hate art history, especially the colorless drones that talk in circles. I don't care about the significance of lemons and the angles of toes within a painting-ever. This time, I did. I wrote down responses, pages of responses, words spilling off the cringing pages in my notebook. My syllabus is now defaced and I am one happy Katie. I shall not continue to talk about all that is nonsensical within my mind, but will instead leave you with a partly conclusive paragraph.
I didn't even include my acting class. But, it was great. And, I will write about it in another post because I am about to go to bed and feel my face tiring and my mind wrinkling. My classes are turning out to be more enjoyable that I expected. They could of course turn sour; I'm willing to take that risk. I also might consider taking the risk of 18 credits the second semester of my senior year. I deserve to be smacked with a spiked mallet. *harsh*
Good night. *omits re-read and editing entirely*
Speaking of these new classes, I've really seen some interesting people in the last couple days. This post is pretty random and unorganized. Probably. But, as you might have realized, so is my mind. I am enrolled in wheel throwing. We pin the teacher to a dart board and chuck things at her. No. Instead, we perform acts of pottery on a spinning wheel, allowing the wet clay to slap us in the face at the sobering hour of 9 a.m. We do this as a tiny Russian lady lectures with a droning absence of tonality in her voice. I mean, really-our supposedly short syllabus class turned into two painful hours of her reading each and every assignment aloud. Because I'm obviously going to remember what the final exam is. Because I'll never see a copy of the syllabus on my own. Because we will not be able to ask her what the assignment is before each project anyways. Because, as she does the demonstration, we will sew our eyes shut to ensure we have to remember the assignment on our own, without her help. Ok, done with the "becauses." After hearing two hours of these absurdities, she went on to introduce tools for another half hour. And, just as I was ready to rip my eyes out, she announced that we were to go on a tour of the art facility. Upon exiting the building to view the outside kiln, heaven happened. We arose from the darkness like a flock of squinting chiclets. Hurrah, and amen.
Onto the next improperly placed paragraph. Entrepreneurship class happened. I walk into the room to find a man wearing a fat suit. Actually, he just had flab overextending past the acceptable point of his pants. This man was futzing around, asking how to control the school's "damn Mac crap." "I ain't drinking the Kool Aid and you kids suck it down like honeybees on drugs." Ok, that's cool. Then, he begins to tell us his life story. This was when things got good, better than good. Though I am unable to remember the exact details of this ridiculous biography, it went along the lines of this: "I dropped out of college, joined the military, started learning about electronics, was sent to Germany, learned German, taught troops how to break past enemy lines with technology, learned Polish, went to Poland, learned French, went to France, learned Greek, went to Greece, went to spy school, worked for intelligence, started over 20 businesses, went to business school, served on the board of the best international business school in the world, came to UM. What. So, this man who claimed to understand nothing about computers, a man as boisterous and unrestrained as a gnarly chihuahua, hustled us like a herd of double-taking doofuses. *Everything takes one fell swoop over the heads of humanity* His outgoing personality struck me as that of a simple-minded dunce. Wrong I was. Wrong...I was. I always figured that you were either a socially awkward genius or a socially competent moron. Again, wrong. He had the personality of a life-winner capable of schmoozing to anyone with or without a pole up their patooty. I want to be him. I'm staying in the class.
Next paragraph time now. Fiction writing. When ever in your life will you be able to take a fiction writing class with a Hawaiian man so enthused about his life and work that he makes you put your desks in a square? Exactly. I sat down in this class expecting a throng of hippies to materialize before my eyes. I was definitely not wrong. Girl with damn braid down to her knees shimmied past me as her hair slapped me in the face. Bet she hasn't washed that for a decade. *cuts tail off of her face* After a few snotty playwrights and some comic fans introduced themselves, I became intoxicated with vigor. The small Hawaiian professor and my classmates began to talk about every book and series I had never heard of. But, I definitely pretended to know what was up so that I would not seem out of the loop. Favorite book? Named one I read about a year ago. *whew* Some morsels of prerequisite problems arose but were soon taken care of, again, as I pretended to have taken the no-longer-needed prerequisite. *double whew*
Then, art history happened. Then, a somehow douche-bag hipster of a philosophical body-builder felt as though it was his duty to enliven us with his take on contemporary art. This was not the professor. Instead, the professor was a meek woman with great cheekbones. Though she could have easily spoken with a commanding Italian accent to grab our attention, she stuck with the like-a-lamb American countenance. Her choice. I was about to slam my face on the edge of the rounded desk, but then, she said something interesting. She said something that sounded like me, like something that would come out of my twisted noggin. The class shortly spiraled into a series of Katie discussions that I was relishing within. The douche-bag hipster gave counter arguments and I fabricated all of the false correlations I could think of. What a release. I love art and usually hate art history, especially the colorless drones that talk in circles. I don't care about the significance of lemons and the angles of toes within a painting-ever. This time, I did. I wrote down responses, pages of responses, words spilling off the cringing pages in my notebook. My syllabus is now defaced and I am one happy Katie. I shall not continue to talk about all that is nonsensical within my mind, but will instead leave you with a partly conclusive paragraph.
I didn't even include my acting class. But, it was great. And, I will write about it in another post because I am about to go to bed and feel my face tiring and my mind wrinkling. My classes are turning out to be more enjoyable that I expected. They could of course turn sour; I'm willing to take that risk. I also might consider taking the risk of 18 credits the second semester of my senior year. I deserve to be smacked with a spiked mallet. *harsh*
Good night. *omits re-read and editing entirely*
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