Surprise Essays and Tight Target Shirts are Pissing Me Off
Well, kids, not one of my best days. We had a SURPRISE!!! final exam in my mental health class. No, really. We were supposed to have "a few essay questions, and the rest will be take home/paper format." Well, those "few" essay questions must've had baby questions over night, because this turned into 27 essay questions and 4 case study analyses, all to be completed in a two hour period. SURPRISE!!!
We all sat there for a minute, totally silent, totally stunned. Then, I pulled myself together, stared down at the half-a-tree exam booklet on my desk, and set to work, writing like hell. My hand cramped up and my stomach clamped up, but I tucked in and my odd knowledge of mental illnesses came in handy. With 20 minutes left, I looked at my watch and realized that I still had the four case studies to do. Consequently, I was reduced to incomplete sentences, which I abhor.
With two minutes left, the professor announced, "So, it looks like everyone is far from being finished, Well, I have nothing else to do; I can stay as long as you need. Keep working."
I dropped my mechanical pencil, which by now had formed a permanent canal in the palm of my hand. You mean to tell me, I screamed in my head, That I RUSHED through this thing, that I RESORTED TO INCOMPLETE SENTENCES FOR GOD'S SAKE, and you have the nerve to give everyone as long as they like?
I started to sizzle a little against my chair; that's how mad I was. I was faced with the option of erasing pages and pages of chicken-scratched, tangled-up words and redoing them all, which would take at least another hour -- or just peace out.
I peaced out. Well, I finished up the last case study and then peaced out. Totally out of character. But I felt so tricked; I had to make a statement, you guys. I suppose my final grade will also be a statement. Huh.
A few hours later, after a massive nap and incessant facebook bitching with my classmates, I went to Target to get leopard-print mittens. While I was there, I glanced across the aisle and saw this GORGEOUS, red silk, sleeveless dancing shirt (literally -- it looked like it was dancing on the rack). It looked like Christmas, and when I walked across the aisle and touched it, it felt like sex.
I held up a few different sizes of the shirt, and medium looked appropriate, so I took it back to try it on. When I put it on, it fit perfectly everywhere -- except in the chesty area. And I'm not talking a mild misfit. I mean the top of the shirt was so tight it shoved my boobs nearly up to my chin. Which, initially, you'd think might be movie-star sheik, might be, wow-her-boobs-are-big attractive. But it was more of a wow-that-looks-so-painful.
I wanted to be angry with the shirt, the dumb shirt, because it would have been perfect. But the shirt was trying so hard to accommodate me, its little seems wheezing along the perimeter of my chest. There I was, standing in the Target dressing room looking like white trash, and it occurred to me: poor celebrities. They must have this problem all the time, except worse, because they're stick thin, yet they all have huge knockers.
Naturally, I only felt sorry for them for about four seconds.
SERIOUSLY. Days like this I wish I were a crack addict.
We all sat there for a minute, totally silent, totally stunned. Then, I pulled myself together, stared down at the half-a-tree exam booklet on my desk, and set to work, writing like hell. My hand cramped up and my stomach clamped up, but I tucked in and my odd knowledge of mental illnesses came in handy. With 20 minutes left, I looked at my watch and realized that I still had the four case studies to do. Consequently, I was reduced to incomplete sentences, which I abhor.
With two minutes left, the professor announced, "So, it looks like everyone is far from being finished, Well, I have nothing else to do; I can stay as long as you need. Keep working."
I dropped my mechanical pencil, which by now had formed a permanent canal in the palm of my hand. You mean to tell me, I screamed in my head, That I RUSHED through this thing, that I RESORTED TO INCOMPLETE SENTENCES FOR GOD'S SAKE, and you have the nerve to give everyone as long as they like?
I started to sizzle a little against my chair; that's how mad I was. I was faced with the option of erasing pages and pages of chicken-scratched, tangled-up words and redoing them all, which would take at least another hour -- or just peace out.
I peaced out. Well, I finished up the last case study and then peaced out. Totally out of character. But I felt so tricked; I had to make a statement, you guys. I suppose my final grade will also be a statement. Huh.
A few hours later, after a massive nap and incessant facebook bitching with my classmates, I went to Target to get leopard-print mittens. While I was there, I glanced across the aisle and saw this GORGEOUS, red silk, sleeveless dancing shirt (literally -- it looked like it was dancing on the rack). It looked like Christmas, and when I walked across the aisle and touched it, it felt like sex.
I held up a few different sizes of the shirt, and medium looked appropriate, so I took it back to try it on. When I put it on, it fit perfectly everywhere -- except in the chesty area. And I'm not talking a mild misfit. I mean the top of the shirt was so tight it shoved my boobs nearly up to my chin. Which, initially, you'd think might be movie-star sheik, might be, wow-her-boobs-are-big attractive. But it was more of a wow-that-looks-so-painful.
I wanted to be angry with the shirt, the dumb shirt, because it would have been perfect. But the shirt was trying so hard to accommodate me, its little seems wheezing along the perimeter of my chest. There I was, standing in the Target dressing room looking like white trash, and it occurred to me: poor celebrities. They must have this problem all the time, except worse, because they're stick thin, yet they all have huge knockers.
Naturally, I only felt sorry for them for about four seconds.
SERIOUSLY. Days like this I wish I were a crack addict.