Absolutely not. Even though I am one of the lucky ones to have made it out, I bear the burden of all those left behind. My shoulders were once strong but they are cracking under the weight. I beckon to you, dear reader: heed my words.
The first two meetings of this are weakly disguised as a collaborative effort to debate the two theories surrounding the class topic and reach a joint conclusion about which one is most accurate. In this hellish dimension Professorson has created, how you choose to jab at the flow of spacetime has no effect on Professorson’s truth. You are a passenger on a zero-destination bullet train and Professor Professorson is your conductor. The ending is always the same, and it’s always doomsday.
You will be dragged along into a semester’s worth of reading, papers, and discussions all engineered to bolster a theory you do not even believe. It’s like the government, and how it oppresses people sometimes. Except this time the government is not the government, it’s your professor… who, by the way, is a music professor, for some reason.
Feedback on papers by Mr. Music consists of red strikethroughs that replace words and phrases with synonymous words and phrases. My final grade of an Ainstead of an A is due to the fact that I am not a technicolor avian that sits atop Professorson’s shoulder, whose artificially selected purpose is to regurgitate his personal theories and anecdotes.
Even as a “mega loser with no friends,” I have never felt so outcasted in an academic environment. Perhaps it is because I am not a humanities major, so I am unfamiliar with the flattery and facetiousness required to succeed in the classroom, but it was jarring to say the least. My mouth is too full of pride, self-respect, and other things that prevented me from suckling at the teet of my Professor for milk that is nearly a century old.
I will always remember this: we read about archaeological performance theory for homework. What the fuck even is that. Take two shots and try to guess what that even is without…
