My first day of class was on Monday. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, what you would call successful. If you wanted to call it something, I suppose you could call it “Ray’s all-day parade of ignorance, shame, and confusion.”
I didn’t get my nuts bitten off by a rabid dog, and that was pretty much the highlight of the day. Also, I didn’t get ass-raped. Unless you count higher education as an entity, in which case I got plenty of ass-raped. Higher education made me its nasty little meathole, and shared me with all of its friends while I begged and cried and cowered.
I went to the dreaded math class, among others. Instead of teaching me some math, the teacher gave me another test. I have taken quite a disliking to the man, not only because of his terrible jokes, but also because he has yet to teach me anything, and he has given me a test over materials not yet covered in class. He gave the test, then reviewed all the things that were covered in the test. Also, he makes us print out our own homework, which, after paying entirely too much for his class, and then entirely too much for the damn book, just feels wrong.
I know, I know—paying too much for everything is just part of the whole college experience. But I actually expected to be taught something in exchange for my money.
And speaking of books: who do you have to blow to get a college to use your text book? I bought my math book today, it was a hundred bucks, used. I don’t even want to know what it costs new, but I bet the royalties are mind-boggling. I should forget about this whole college thing and just write text books. Seems like all you have to do is babble incoherently for about four hundred pages, making sure that nobody understands what the hell you’re talking about. I do that all the time, man. Shit, I’m such a pro, I can even do it drunk out of my mind.
I’m not going to carry on about my school experience too much, because I know that this is something that hundreds of thousands of idiot high school kids do all the time, and I know that I’m just being a punk-ass about things, and I need to quit whining. But shit, man.
My notes from math class, I just gave up and drew a picture of Spider-Man giving me a thumbs-up. He’s sitting on what appears to be a giant taco. Or possibly a banana.
I was going to draw a guy blowing his own brains out, and instead of brains, it was all a bunch of numbers and letters and equal signs and shit, but I figured that in this day and age, a picture like that might be misconstrued as a threat of some kind, so I refrained. Instead, I diligently covered my paper with question marks of various sizes and fonts and nodded like I had a clue.
I got out of class and spent the next two hours bitching and moaning to my princess about how I hated being dumb. She said that a class didn’t get to classify me as dumb. She was trying to make me feel better, but she’s wrong. She’s not the only one.
People keep telling me about how a class can’t dictate whether I’m dumb or smart. But, see, that’s actually the point of all this nonsense. If it was just about figuring something out, I’d look it up on the internet. The deal is, I’m paying money for these people to tell me how smart I am so that I can tell other people. In theory, these other people will be so impressed with how smart I am—especially when I have a note from the college saying something like, “No, seriously, he’s smart—we knew him for four years”—that they’ll want to give me a job and pay me more money than I get for just lifting heavy shit all day.
It’s their job to tell me if I’m smart or not. Otherwise, I’d just walk into any office I wanted to work, show them the picture I drew with my new crayons, and go, “Yeah, so I’m really smart and you should hire me.” If they weren’t won over immediately, I could show them that thing I do with the ping-pong ball.
But this is real life, and ping-pong ball tricks—no matter how filthy and mesmerizing they are—just aren’t enough to get you a job where a degree is required.
So I’m going to go to bed now, in order to wake up feeling refreshed and energized for the inevitable mental breakdown that I’ll soon be suffering. I mean, I can’t let those gabby chicks in the front row who talk all through class be the only attention whores, right?