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Making New Friends by Ray Printer Friendly

Usually, I don't write about the people I go to school with. I wrote a couple of posts at the first of the year about the fat sack of crap who sat next to me in one of my classes, but I took this one down because I was afraid that the guy would somehow come across this website and see the post (it was supposed to go back up at the end of the semester, but I just now remembered to do it). As much as I detest people, I generally try not to hurt their feelings. It’s kind of an agreement I have with my princess. It’s her little effort to make the world a better place.

Tonight, I don’t care.

I started a new class today. I’m not going to tell you anything about it, except that it’s a twelve-week class (which is why it’s starting now instead of a few weeks back when all my other classes started), and in order to take it, I had to get a letter from the dean saying it was okay for me to take it, even though it put me over their approved amount of hours. I’ve been meaning to tell you that story, seeing as how it was such a fuckarow in and of itself, but we’ll have to save that one for a different day.

Right now, I’m talking about this numb-shit knuckle-dragger I met in class tonight.

I consider myself something of a classy gentleman, so I don’t usually condone beating the everloving shit out of women, but this chick…oh my gosh. You know how they have those shelters for abused women? Like you go when your husband or boyfriend or whatever is beating you, and they keep you safe and give you moral support and therapy and all that shit?

Imagine if you wanted to set up a place the exact opposite of that, like where you bring women when you want to beat them. Hard sell, right? You bring this chick in, let her talk for a couple minutes, you’d have people not only supporting your cause, but donating money to it.

Honestly, the fact that no one has killed her yet lowers my faith in humanity. I don’t understand it.

My jaw is sore because I’ve been grinding my teeth so hard, and the muscles in my back and shoulders are tight and achy because of the tension caused by not screaming at her to shut the fuck up.

Right about now, you might be wondering just what exactly she did or said that enraged me. I wish I could tell you, I really do.

But it was more of an ongoing thing, beginning just before class, when she asked me how to turn on the computer. Here’s the thing: This is a computer class with all sorts of prerequisites, and we had to interview to get in. God knows what this woman said to get through the interview, but apparently they didn’t ask her to actually use one of the machines she claimed to work with proficiently. I can’t blame the interviewers, really, because when someone comes in to interview for a computer class, you sort of have to assume that they know how to turn one on. I know plenty of people who have bullshitted their way into a job, hoping to learn as they go, but that’s kind of pushin’ it, don’t you think?

“Yeah, I know how to use Photoshop, Dreamweaver, Firewor—oh, holy shit! What was that sound?”

“That was the computer powering up.”

“Oh…yeah, I know that. I meant that other sound. You guys probably didn’t hear it. Aside from being a computer genius, I also have super hearing. Somewhere, a pony just died horribly. So where do you guys keep your computers?”

“You’re…you’re sitting on one right now.”

“Oh, right. This is how all the people at Google do it. Did you know I trained Google? I did.”

I don’t know, man. At one point, I found myself moaning in an E.T. voice, “Be Quiet.” You know where E.T. is dying, and he’s all poking at Eliot, and he groans, “Beeeee gooooood?” That’s what I did.

That was when she was asking the instructor (of a computer class) whether or not the oil drilling methods described in the movie There Will Be Blood were accurate. Her query went something along the lines of “Is that how it goes for real, with the straws? They call it stealing somebody’s milkshake?”

I didn’t stab myself in the hand with my pen, but I got close. Also, I didn’t slap her in the back of the head and tell her to shut the fuck up before I had to burn down the world. As terrible as it is to admit, it was a close thing. She had her hair parted all weird so that there was a perfect palm-sized bald spot. It would have made such a satisfying sound, my hand connecting firmly with her scalp.

So yeah. Hooray for another semester.


posted 9/25/08


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