Me: So you’re telling attendance isn’t needed to pass this class
Professor: Well I guess you could just email me every assignment and final and pass
Me: You dun fucked up bruh
This irks me because of the collective and pervasive “professors are out to get you” mentality.
No, the professor didn’t “dun fuck up”. If you’re skipping class and doing well, then they probably don’t give a fuck. If you’re skipping class and failing, then /you/ are the one that “dun fucked up”.
Ok, some of them just teach because they have to as part of their research funding. Some of them teach because that’s just where they ended up. But some of them teach because they honestly just want to share the beauty of their field with students who share the same passion.
That’s why some professors will take no bullshit from a 100/200-level class but hand out free late days to their 300/400-level students. At that point, they know you’re trying to share or at least understand their passion, and they respect you and treat you as adults for it.
So give them a chance and forgive their mistakes as they do ours.
He kissed her bye not knowing it was Good bye.
They locked up all the knives.
I am no believer
in the power of faith,
wishes and goodwill.
Some would say
I’m of an older caliber—
duty, honor and practicality
for the sake of life—
duty, pride and sacrifice.
Yet hunched beneath my covers
in the cover of the night
I tap away at flowing words,
and abstract designs flood the margins
of algorithms and code,
frame the variables of probability and statistics.
Still I tuck away my good pens,
hide my leather journals,
sit up and try to pay attention.
But the scribbles leak out
from behind the rational
mind hiding a dreaming heart.
Tis five o clock in the morn.
To study all night I have sworn.
Indeed this long night I have slaved,
for that godforsaken GPA must be saved.
Yes, many numbers have been crunched,
And many snacks have been munched,
But alas it may be time to admit
That it may in fact be time to quit.
So I shall now bid thee a sad good night
Before night turns to day with dawn’s light.
Be wary of bad luck in the great or the small,
and a happy Friday the Thirteenth to all.
Does love exist? I’m not being facetious or rhetorical. I mean, how is it that some people are so sure they’re in love (although sometimes they’ll later admit it was lust) and yet some people can’t fathom what it is supposed to feel like? Some people say it’s effortless, like falling, and some say it’s a commitment, an effort you choose to make every day. One could argue that this means love is what we each believe it to be. In which case, love would exist only because we have been told it does and so we bring it into existence by convincing ourselves it exists and trying to live by it. What’s the point?