Well, finals are winding down (for me, anyway) and I have heard back final grades for three of my five classes, a full thirty percent of my graduate career. All A's, hoorah for me. I knocked out a fourth class yesterday by handing in a CD and a stack of papers which may as well have been labeled "Thus begins four weeks of not having to curse your name at midnight." I'm reasonably confident of an A in that course as well, which means that I have only one remaining.
A one-to-one correlation exists between the number of times I have fallen asleep in class this semester and the number of meeting times this last course has had scheduled. That alone is not enough evidence to determine causality, as you know, but it begins the job. Add to this data that this is a course in the "History of Technical Communication" and you get closer to the mark. Picture your high school American history classes. Now, take out all of the wars, social and literary movements, elections, and assassinations. In their place, put unimportant, uninteresting people whose names did not appear on their own work. Then, for the coup de grâce, add to all this that their writing was all scientific reports, budget statements and manuals. Finally, slit one of your wrists and contemplate the prospect of drowning in a pool of your own week-old urine, and you will have arrived at an approximation of my suffering on Tuesdays and Thursdays throughout this term.
So, my current situation is quite dire. With absolutely no interest in the course material, and no energy left to devote to this bullshit, I have a choice to make. I can either reach deep into my own soul, cut off a portion of it, and sacrifice it to get through tonight OR I can half-ass this work, satisfy myself with a B, and celebrate the near-successful completion of half of graduate school.
I seem to do this every semester. There's always one class that I just can't trick myself into caring about. It gets shoved to the back burner, which may or may not even be turned on. And it's the last final, scheduled in the morning.
Suck it, Tech Com 361. Just suck it.
12 December 2007
10 December 2007
Notes from the Frontier
Since seeking refuge in my precious free time has become a bowel-clutching need, I have begun watching shows streamed over ABC.com. I'm pretty devoted to Brothers and Sisters, Men in Trees, Desperate Housewives, Ugly Betty, Pushing Daisies, and Samantha Who. It's much easier to watch only what you want to watch when you don't have to actually use at TV to watch TV. This TV watching has led me to observe an unnerving trend. Ok, two unnerving trends. First is that I'm watching Desperate Housewives, a title I just snickered at before I gave it a chance. Now, I'm addicted, though I still think it's a stupid show. The second trend? With the writers' strike in full swing, shows on ABC are beginning to adopt plot lines that seem to write themselves around a single, dramatic plot device dropped into the show's timeline like a turd into a punch bowl.
Desperate Housewives, though a stupid show, was charmingly devoted to the domestic politics that surround a few bitches on Wisteria Lane. The last episode featured a tornado, but it didn't stop the politics--oh no! They were still exchanging bitchy banter and killing one another while the storm raged. The mayor was poetically slain by a picket fence-wielding funnel cloud (wtf!?) and Lynette's entire family was buried when the house above the basement they were sheltering in collapsed on them. See?? Even the prepositions stacked atop one another to describe this writing are hard to understand!
In Men in Trees, Jack's research ship on the Bering Sea got sunk by a rogue wave (yes, for those of you who are paying attention, they're actually ripping off Poseidon, a movie sporting a cameo by Fergie) and Marin is at home, exasperatedly waiting for him to call her. Get it? She doesn't know his ship sank, and he's fighting hypothermia and guilt after letting one of his teammates die of blood loss. Hilarity ensues.
On Ugly Betty, Willamina bribes a doctor to steal semen from Bradford's dead body so that she can impregnate herself for revenge ("revenge semen!") on the Meade family for not signing over Mode magazine when she asked nicely. Oh, and for good measure, she also laid the smack down on Betty White, who made a joke about lesbian fan fiction regarding herself and Bea Arthur.
They also brought back "My So-Called Life" (online only, Fridays, don't miss it!) and pretended that it was new.
So, I ask in conclusion, is all of this bullshit written by scabs? Producers? Executives? Brain amputees? It's like whoever is "writing" these scripts is just trying to get back at the writers for leaving, and so they're going to screw up the plot so badly that it will never recover. Which will inevitably end with a plague of time-travel just as the strike is resolved, and we'll have another Heroes on our hands.
Desperate Housewives, though a stupid show, was charmingly devoted to the domestic politics that surround a few bitches on Wisteria Lane. The last episode featured a tornado, but it didn't stop the politics--oh no! They were still exchanging bitchy banter and killing one another while the storm raged. The mayor was poetically slain by a picket fence-wielding funnel cloud (wtf!?) and Lynette's entire family was buried when the house above the basement they were sheltering in collapsed on them. See?? Even the prepositions stacked atop one another to describe this writing are hard to understand!
In Men in Trees, Jack's research ship on the Bering Sea got sunk by a rogue wave (yes, for those of you who are paying attention, they're actually ripping off Poseidon, a movie sporting a cameo by Fergie) and Marin is at home, exasperatedly waiting for him to call her. Get it? She doesn't know his ship sank, and he's fighting hypothermia and guilt after letting one of his teammates die of blood loss. Hilarity ensues.
On Ugly Betty, Willamina bribes a doctor to steal semen from Bradford's dead body so that she can impregnate herself for revenge ("revenge semen!") on the Meade family for not signing over Mode magazine when she asked nicely. Oh, and for good measure, she also laid the smack down on Betty White, who made a joke about lesbian fan fiction regarding herself and Bea Arthur.
They also brought back "My So-Called Life" (online only, Fridays, don't miss it!) and pretended that it was new.
So, I ask in conclusion, is all of this bullshit written by scabs? Producers? Executives? Brain amputees? It's like whoever is "writing" these scripts is just trying to get back at the writers for leaving, and so they're going to screw up the plot so badly that it will never recover. Which will inevitably end with a plague of time-travel just as the strike is resolved, and we'll have another Heroes on our hands.
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