Dear W. Mind,
Australian history, despite the fact that I live in Australia, is redundant crap, and nobody should be subjected to learning about it. Ever. It has no merits whatsoever, and there is no redeeming aspect of this particular subject which can override that fact. My lecturer may be gay (no, really) and awesome, but even he fails at trying to make the subject matter sound at all intriguing.
How oh how shall I remedy this? My friend, who is also bored out of her mind, would like to be in on the answer to this question.
From,
Shitted Up the Wall.
Dear Shitted Up the Wall,
The best thing I can recommend at this point is to take your lecture notes and scribble obscene, highly profane references from two Youtube videos all across it. Clips concerning shoes and tops are particularly popular. It is also advisable to spend a good ten (no more, no less) minutes producing a very detailed representation of a tree.
Your lecturer will not notice this taking place if you devise ways to make the exchange of paper between hands look subtle and borderline unnoticeable. This may also go for any other classes you find boring. Please find a visual demonstration of this process below.
From,
W. Mind.
Posted on April 10th, 2008 | Filed under Fun, Random, Work & Uni |
Let’s examine this scenario:
It’s almost midnight. You have an English essay due for university on Friday 04/04/08 at 4pm, and your teacher is too old to like technology, insisting that a hard-copy must be handed in; no e-mail attachments can be recognised as submissions. You sit at your computer with a bit of a hunched back, having just consumed half a carton of chocolate milk, thinking that, hey, since warm milk has enzymes which make you sleepy, cold flavoured milk must have some kind of a polar opposite reaction.
Ten minutes to midnight. Your essay has to be 1500 words long, on the topic of “Text and Context”, answering a question that isn’t written correctly grammar-wise and would make you LOL at your teacher if only you weren’t fifteen hours away from having to hand it in and also had other shit to do on top of it. Another sip of milk. No, tea, tea is better. You get some tea. Come back. The word count, which you expected to magically increase by 1000, just stares at you without any fear, and you want to stab it. But that’s alright… you have fifteen hours, right? Right.
Five minutes to midnight. You can tell this is going to be a nasty all-nighter, and knowing your pattern of going to bed at ridiculous hours and waking up in the late afternoon, suddenly the thought of any sleep at all scares the shit out of you, in case you sleep past the deadline and are penalised 10% of the mark for every day that it’s late (including weekend days). No. You MUST stay up, damnit!
Two minutes to midnight. You open the readings booklet, and start combing through Brokeback Mountain whilst doing research on the author to beef up your essay and make it sound like you’ve accumulated a great deal of knowledge in the past six weeks, when really it’s just been a load of bullshit. The word count has not increased. You eye it again skeptically, then go back to the booklet. It’s going to be a long night.
Midnight. You suddenly think about the sunrise; how fun it would be to watch the sky slowly grow lighter, the one moment of the day when you can take a walk outside in a coat due to the cold and think back on your life. When you can reminisce more than most teenagers ought to, with a cup of coffee in your hand slowly waking you up while you still dilly-dally in your memories and watch that bleak sunlight break across the horizon. And…
Ten past twelve. Crap. Your essay is still sitting there. You sigh and maximise the Microsoft Word window, staring at the word count. You’re not even 5% of the way to the finish line yet! Disgraceful, considering how much of an English nerd you were in your final year of high school, and taking into account that the topic is essentially the same fucking thing, only more dolled up to look more intimidating. Placing your fingers on the keys, you finally start to type…
One o’clock in the morning. You lean back from the desk, circulate the room in a giddy manner, stretch your arms and legs, feeling proud of yourself. Considering how dead your brain has been over the past few days, and how annoying that fucking pain in your foot is, you’ve come a fair way. Your chair is a wheelie chair, so it’s extra-fun. From a distance, it looks like you’ve written more than 400 words! It must be. Then, you truck on over to the computer again, and bring up the word count dialog. It reads: 237.
You just stare at it, feeling slightly mortified, slightly sleepy, and mostly grouchy. All the high from your wheelie run has completely gone poof. And all you can think, is: Bugger.
Posted on April 4th, 2008 | Filed under Random, Work & Uni |
