Will people out there promise not to tell my parents that I'm spending hundreds of dollars this year learning about Christian imagery in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, lesbian performance artists (or alleged pornographers, for those big believers in the American Christian right) and a French lady gets plastic surgery done on her face so she has the facial parts of different icons in Western culture -- including, but not limited to, the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and somebody from Space:1999? That I had never heard of that show before last week only goes to show that the authors of my "Complete History of Science-Fiction Television" should be sued for false advertising. I've got a reputation to upkeep here, and just knowing about Metropolis (the 1928 one!) or Mork and Mindy just doesn't cut it.
Don't get me wrong -- I love school. Enough to make Dan jealous, I'm sure. But I still can't understand how academics can spend their lives thinking, writing, and rehashing _____ without getting out of the asbestos-packed tower of death that is Buchanan Tower, never mind convincing us hapless pions that any of this is relevant; to be true, I have killer speed-reading skills now, but that sinking feeling that tells me I'm not being terribly productive still goes off a few times a day.
That could be a bad reaction to having my resume read over by someone who does that for a living, though; there's still a part of me that is embarassed I haven't been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize or saved a small nation at the age of 20 -- curse you, Craig Kielburger, for setting the bar so high! I can't explain why selling condoms means so much to me; granted, that's not exactly why I signed up to be a peer educator, but you go with what people know. I can't cram the reasons into three lines, and I'm starting to find that the exponential population growth of the planet has suddenly rendered me a very unimportant commodity. Hence the condoms. And no, I don't know if the flavoured red ones are cherry or strawberry. People tend to ask.
Don't get me wrong -- I love school. Enough to make Dan jealous, I'm sure. But I still can't understand how academics can spend their lives thinking, writing, and rehashing _____ without getting out of the asbestos-packed tower of death that is Buchanan Tower, never mind convincing us hapless pions that any of this is relevant; to be true, I have killer speed-reading skills now, but that sinking feeling that tells me I'm not being terribly productive still goes off a few times a day.
That could be a bad reaction to having my resume read over by someone who does that for a living, though; there's still a part of me that is embarassed I haven't been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize or saved a small nation at the age of 20 -- curse you, Craig Kielburger, for setting the bar so high! I can't explain why selling condoms means so much to me; granted, that's not exactly why I signed up to be a peer educator, but you go with what people know. I can't cram the reasons into three lines, and I'm starting to find that the exponential population growth of the planet has suddenly rendered me a very unimportant commodity. Hence the condoms. And no, I don't know if the flavoured red ones are cherry or strawberry. People tend to ask.
