I got my "mini-essays" back today at my last Women's Studies class, and did better than I'd thought I would, (what with the procrastination and self-loathing and everything).
My love/hate reaction to WMST 244 has been a bit like my hate/love opinion of the Math building, where the class was held. You know that I hate math. Fear, loathe, have an overwhelming horror of it. Math. And it makes me uncomfortable to spend time in a place where people don't have those feelings. Math students are 98% men, apparently, and to pass by the rooms with the men and their math problems every Tuesday and Thursday, I'm afraid I'm starting to look askance at men. In general. Because of the math.
The love thing (for the math building, not the men, yay men, really) kicks in when I ignore the people taking tests every day (every day, I swear to christ) and admire the sort of dilapidated, old-ish, academic atmosphere the building has. There's wood involved in the structure, if you can believe it, wooden doors even. And the ceilings are high. The windows open like windows should and fog up in the winter, and I dig that. The whole thing seems slightly unfair, really, because shouldn't the English students, the writing students, the sad, romantic people, shouldn't we get the sad, romantic, ivy-clad building? No. We get Buchanan, Block X.
After class I started driving to the garage to get my car's coolant tank mended and halfway there my car overheated, badly, and I had to be towed the rest of the way. Not so bad, the steam was very dramatic. But then, after dropping it off and having two slices of pizza at Nick's across the street, and a slice of apple berry pie, and a limonata, and read "the Queue" three times over, I still couldn't get ahold of anyone at home. So I walked, and it was cold and dark, and I'm not very fit. Once home, wheezing and punching myself in the heart, I found both my parents lounging around, listening to U2 and eating oranges, having NOT checked their messages, or heard the phone. Silly, bad parents. Agreed? I would have told them so more loudly, too, if I didn't know that actually, they are Santa, and I want my elephant. I want my elephant. I do.
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Bad parents! But oh god, the image of you wheezing and punching nearly killed me--which will probably be my fate this afternoon after the upstairs folk get home and beat me down for howling so loud at such an ungodly hour of the morning.
On a different note--you're taking a women's studies class? How's that working out? Anna, the gal directly above my computer room, took one and said that the foundation of the course could be summed up as follows: congratulations on being a woman! Doesn't it suck ass?
I can't tell you how happy this post made me when I read "two slices of pizza... pie... limonata." I worry, Claire, I worry. Now I need not.
I miss Buchannan. Concordia's English department is on the fifth floor of the library building. The library occupies the first four floors. For reasons for which I can only hold stupidity or intense crack-smoking responsible, you can't walk up stairs from the first floor to the fifth, on account of the library being in the way, and the problems with theft and whatnot. So they MAKE you take the elevator. I have started to become claustrophobic and given up being patient, as there are only three elevators and sometimes you have to wait for ten minutes before you can get one going down, and then it comes and it's full, so you have to keep waiting, why not just take the stairs OH WE CAN'T TAKE THE STAIRS no. NO. Also, there are many rooms here without windows. The main building across the street where the unwashed undergrads hang out has escalators between floors, which are permanently broken. Concordia wins hands-down for poor building design. At lest in Buchannan you can walk from A to E without ever having to go outside. Which is true of Concordia, but at least they don't hold a gun to your head and MAKE you take the elevator.
Sorry, I just had a great deal of spicy soup and now I'm all riled up. Elevators. BAN THEM!
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