“It’s so gritty!”

My very young science lab professor, who I have dubbed Pruf.Rock (Edited from G-man because nobody understood the mob reference. So sorry for being cultured), is what one might call really, really good looking. “Especially on the days he doesn’t shave,” swoons a classmate over lunch one day. As college girls, we fall victim to any boy over the age of twelve who showers regularly and doesn’t wear “vintage” bands shirts that haven’t been washed in about a year.

My classmate, like myself, continually tries to impress the professor by doing the reading, asking insightful questions, and showing up on time (well, that last one is her, not me.). We also try to talk to him when we see him around campus, but every time I try to be suave, I end up making myself out to look like a valley girl, or worse, boring.

Of course he saw me on a day we didn’t have class wearing the same outfit I had worn the day before, and he remembered because I wore sort of an offbeat shirt that he had commented on. I don’t care enough anymore to pick out a different outfit every day; I just roll with whatever is washed. Any college kid reading this is lying if they say they don’t do the exact same thing. “I remember the days,” he says and smiles.
“Yesterday?” I kid, “How old are you? 35?” He looks hurt at the assumption, I stammer. “Or less...”
“I just turned 30,” he says.
“Cool. My cousin just turned 31,” I say, “All she wants is to be married and have a baby.”
“I win,” he jokes, I think of his wife and sigh. He begins to talk again, “You do any of the reading?”
“I looked at the book...” I reply, “Didn’t open it, but I looked at it,” As soon as I finish that sentence I want to shove it all back into my mouth again. You’re not funny! I tell myself, You’re no good!
Pruf.Rock feigns a laugh, “Oh-ho-ho.”
“It sounded really good in my head,” I explain.
“Happens with me all the time in lectures,” he knocks me on the shoulder like we’re pals and I forget where I am and what my name is, “It’s ok, yo.” Part of his charm is that he talks like a surfer. “Sweet!” is probably his favorite expression and has somehow weaseled its way into my vocabulary.

The next day in class, I was wearing something different and trying to keep up with a lecture about things that had nothing to do with anything I was thinking about, making it very difficult to pay attention. “You gettin’ this, Steph?” he wants to know. I snap out of the daydream I’m having about the brand new jeans my professor was wearing and how nice his ass looked in them.
“Um, I’m sorry. Can you repeat the question?” I wonder.

My lab partner kicks me under the table and my professor just laughs, “I remember the days…”

“Oh my GAWD! I just wanna get out of here and go tan!”
- Girl behind me in my Humanities class.

"The weirdo guy with the photos? Crazy!"

College has turned me into a cynical bitch. No, actually, college didn’t do that, but at least before I would suppress it a little. Now, I don’t care and I stopped shaving my legs.

But I still shower, let me get that out there.

Half the year has flown by and I’ve already changed my major three times, which will allow me an undergraduate experience just shy of eight years no doubt. For the moment, I’m determined to make it as an English major, but you may as well tell your relatives you’re majoring in lint, they’ll react in the same way.

“English! That’s quaint.”

“Adorable!” my uncle bellowed after I broke the news over a big family dinner, “What are you really majoring in?”
“English,” I restate.

I'm reminded of the four-year-old who says they want to be an astronaut while they blast off into deep space in the over-sized box the dishwasher arrived in. “Kids!” their mother apologizes to whatever dinner guests just happen to be over, “They have such wild imaginations! She'll soon grow out of it and realize she wants to be a doctor… I hope.”

“Well then!” he replies, which is a nicer way of saying, “What the hell are you going to do with that major?”

I plan to complain extensively to everyone about how I paid a ridiculously large sum of money to learn how to be a fabulous intern or student teacher before eventually turning to a life of prostitution -strictly to pay off tuition loans- then, I’ll just strip.

“If it’s your major, be proud of it!” my friend advises me, “Even if everyone gives you shit. Prove them wrong. Write the best erotic literature they’ve ever read! I believe in you.”

Kids, they have such wild imaginations.

Quote of the day:
Stefi: "Rachel! We should go on a road trip to see San-"
Rachel: "Santa Fe?! I really want to go to Santa Fe!"
Stefi ::turning to Sandeep:: :"OK, she did not get that."
Sandeep: "Obviously."
Rachel: ..."What?"
-- Rachel, missing the fact that I thought we should take a trip to see Sandeep in Tucson while she's in town.

"Are we dating?"

My English class happens to be taught by Professor Marvel; a self-proclaimed psychic with a self-made addiction to food. “Stephanie,” he pinpointed me one day during a discussion I hadn’t been paying much attention to; instead I was busy writing limericks in my notebook, “Did you want to say something? I felt as though you did?” He takes a bite of his chocolate muffin, which sounds dirty on paper, but I swear, wasn't.
“Um, uh yeah,” I say, not wanting to hurt his feelings, “Sure.”

He looks kind and cuddly, like a teddy bear or a Nazi, but allow him to whisper down to you -the only way he’ll converse with a student- for longer than four seconds and you soon see he’s not so nice, if you can ever hear him. I only ever hear him when he’s telling me off, otherwise he speaks as though he’s in a library. I walked in this morning at nine on the dot. “Stephanie!” he’s fond of using names, “You’re late!” Actually, I felt like yelling back, I’m on time, asshole. Instead, I just took my seat and silently thanked Joe for stumbling in four minutes after me. Not that Joe was reprimanded. Joe is a boy.

I’m not alone when I say my English class is a giant waste of time. Every Tuesday and Thursday I fritter away an hour of my life that I could use to sleep or check Facebook pretending to be riveted by a lecture that usually has absolutely nothing to do with what we’re supposed to be learning. My English class has more Science in it than my Science lab, actually. The holographic Earth, spoon bending, powers of ten; you name it and we’ve either discussed it in length or have watched a three hour movie on it.

“This class sucks!” my friend Pookie announced angrily one morning while we sat and did nothing, waiting for our professor to finish conferencing with the class kiss-ass, R.
“I’d like it better if there was food,” I mused, “Jews love food. We probably would have stayed at Auschwitz had there been better food… and weather permitted, of course.”
Forty heads turned to me in disgust. “Too early to joke about genocide?” I countered.

The kids in the class, with the exception of about six, are not much better than our teacher. For instance, the kiss-ass sits next to a big slab of meat affectionately dubbed ‘Roid Monkey by the lone blonde girl in the class. Every class hour, ‘Roid Monkey and his muscle shirt bring in what can only be described as a strawberry yogurt parfait; perhaps arguably the daintiest of food items available for consumption during breakfast hours. This parfait, however, is large enough to feed all the children in Cambodia that Angelina has yet to adopt and the flies that cover them. I assume he eats his parfait in order to stay buff for his bouncer job he announced he had with pride on the first day of class, probably to impress the cute girl who sits next to him that we later find out is way underage.

However, she is too busy coloring and playing with Polly Pocket to care. Her utter lack of concern and obvious age difference doesn’t seem to bother ‘Roid Monkey one bit, and why should it? This girl dresses well and has low enough jeans and tiny tops to boot. Also, she looks at least seventeen and that’s a prime age. He carries on whispering to her or touching her arm to get her attention, “Nice shirt,” seems to be his only compliment. “Uh, thanks,” seems to be her only reply before she turns around to talk to her secretly gay, but Jesus loving "friend" who firmly believes we have such great technology thanks to the Nazis and amazing medical benefits because of the Holocaust in general.
“Seriously,” he argued in class during a seminar, “They made everything we have!”
“But, they killed all the Jewish doctors?” I feigned confusion in reply. He didn’t find it funny. I did)\. In addition to being surreptitiously in love with blonde Aryan boys (apparently), this kid looks like a walking ad for Myspace. Or The Advocate.
“He has a girlfriend!” Olga tells me after class, “I asked him today for clarification”.
“Girlfriend or beard?” I ask, “Make sure you get that clarified too.”
It’s only a shame he won’t come out of the closet, rip off his What Would Jesus Do bracelet, and ditch the KKK because gay people love me. They find me fabulous. We could have been great friends.

Class is canceled this Thursday, thank our lord Stephen Colbert. Naturally, I’ll spend my extra hour reading Defamer.

Quote of the day:
“Yeah, but you’re not a writer.”
- This kid Chris in reply to Amanda R.’s suggestion that he should read my blog.