Dealing With Professor Problems

opinion

If you’re like me, you’ve had a professor or two that really get your goat. You should also maybe talk to a doctor about that cough, but doctors don’t tell my lungs what to do.  You’re classmates start to feel more like a support group because they know. You can rant to parents, friends, coworkers, delivery people or pets, but they weren’t there. They don’t know. Well, I’ve got two New Year’s resolutions this year: be nicer to delivery people and help you deal with your least favorite professor.

First off, every good relationship is based on communication. You have to talk to your professor; tell him how you feel. The real challenge is getting them to open up. It’s been a long day at work and he doesn’t need your nagging right now. You need to tell him this is important, that your professional relationship hangs in the balance. You can feel your grade slipping away, and he’s not even trying to save what you’ve got. That’s just like you though, mountains out of molehills. Just like your mother.

Second, you have to take responsibility for your own grade. To an extent, what happened to your grade is your fault. That’s something you have to process for yourself. Are you an ostrich? Because if not, you need to get your head out of the sand and see that there is a problem. If you are, however, please keep your violent nature and 2,000-pound kick at a respectable distance. Next, you’re probably going to be angry at the world that wronged you and all other worlds that are never gonna see it coming. Naturally, this will lead to depression and probably some sort of bargaining with your professor to get your 32.9 rounded to a 60. Finally, you need to just accept it is what it is.

For the next step, simply pull out the magazine clippings you’ve been collecting over the last decade. Make a fake ransom note for yourself asking for 50 large at a drop spot by midnight tomorrow. Carve a unique fingerprint in a stamp with an X-Acto knife. Rub it on your arm until it collects enough skin and oils. Start stamping fake fingerprints on the letter. Leave your note and tell your roommates you’re “going out for gas.”

Don’t show up to the drop; let them assume something went wrong. Drive down to Orlando, Florida. Get a dog and name him Spot. It’s a golden retriever, but the name is ironic. Go to the bar. Meet someone and fall in love. Have a couple kids, ya know, to really sell it. Settle into your new life. Go to the gas station. It’s getting held up. Tackle the gunman. But you forgot, the president is in the state. There’s a reporter here and she saw it all. God, the camera crew is here too and they’re getting ready to interview you.

That can’t happen. Don’t think, just act. You sock the reporter in the face. Jesus, is that really the best you could come up with? Go to jail. The arresting officer notices your social security number is one number too long. You admit you just used your old phone number. Guess you didn’t fake your own death because you’re a genius. Luckily, he has a use for a man like you. He lets you off on a technicality, says he didn’t read you your Miranda Rights. You now owe him a life debt. Maybe he’ll forget or maybe he’ll just want you to help him move or something. You have no way of knowing you’d one day wear his blood like a human Rorschach test. That’s long ways off though. Right now, it’s Christmas Eve and you’re a free man. It’s time to go home. Lie to your kids about Santa and God and that everything will be alright. Drink eggnog until you start to believe it yourself.

Or something like that.

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