Back at it
First and foremost:
RIP Curtis Manning. You did not deserve to go. Fuck, I am so angry.
In other news, it's back to the grind here at Boston College. My Irish Memoir professor, Nugent, is hilarious. He first counted the class number at "Twelve. Twelve. Twelve is a good number. A nice round number, yeah? A nice, round, even number, if you will. Wonderful, I think." (door opens) "Until someone decides to ruin it for all of us. Go, sit down. You've ruined our good number. You've also brought a bought of bad luck upon all of us. Thirteen. What were you thinking. What a ghastly number. Sit down." And he summed up realism as "getting down into the feck and grime of life." I love the way he swears.
Studies in Poetry is a requirement for the major, so I figured I'd get it over with. And that seems like basically what will happen: get it all over with quickly. Doesn't seem at all challenging. I was pulling all sorts of Dugan terms out of my ass, like villanelle and slant rhyme. She was quite impressed. Plus, there's a kid I've had an unfounded crush on in the class, based purely on the way he walks. He has an attractive gait.
Then it's back to Walter Kim's Biblical Heritage II, which is going to be a BREEZE. Last semester we had four quizzes, a midterm, and a gargantuan research paper; this time around it's just two short tests and a group project. Guaranteed A and some insight on Jesus are all right in my book.
Tomorrow it's off to History of the English Language at noon (according to former students: "If you're an English major used to getting straight A's, get ready to have your GPA crushed." puh) and Philosophy with Gusich at two. I might not mind this schedule as much as I thought I would.
I mostly keep track of my feelings about the first few days of class because it's funny to look back on them. Like the fact that my first great moment of college was in my Narrative class, and it turned out that it was the worst class in the world.
...Funny to me, at least.
RIP Curtis Manning. You did not deserve to go. Fuck, I am so angry.
In other news, it's back to the grind here at Boston College. My Irish Memoir professor, Nugent, is hilarious. He first counted the class number at "Twelve. Twelve. Twelve is a good number. A nice round number, yeah? A nice, round, even number, if you will. Wonderful, I think." (door opens) "Until someone decides to ruin it for all of us. Go, sit down. You've ruined our good number. You've also brought a bought of bad luck upon all of us. Thirteen. What were you thinking. What a ghastly number. Sit down." And he summed up realism as "getting down into the feck and grime of life." I love the way he swears.
Studies in Poetry is a requirement for the major, so I figured I'd get it over with. And that seems like basically what will happen: get it all over with quickly. Doesn't seem at all challenging. I was pulling all sorts of Dugan terms out of my ass, like villanelle and slant rhyme. She was quite impressed. Plus, there's a kid I've had an unfounded crush on in the class, based purely on the way he walks. He has an attractive gait.
Then it's back to Walter Kim's Biblical Heritage II, which is going to be a BREEZE. Last semester we had four quizzes, a midterm, and a gargantuan research paper; this time around it's just two short tests and a group project. Guaranteed A and some insight on Jesus are all right in my book.
Tomorrow it's off to History of the English Language at noon (according to former students: "If you're an English major used to getting straight A's, get ready to have your GPA crushed." puh) and Philosophy with Gusich at two. I might not mind this schedule as much as I thought I would.
I mostly keep track of my feelings about the first few days of class because it's funny to look back on them. Like the fact that my first great moment of college was in my Narrative class, and it turned out that it was the worst class in the world.
...Funny to me, at least.