"I'm an asshole and I'm proud of it."
Sep. 13th, 2003 09:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeThat's it. I quit.
Actually, I very nearly walked out of that damn class last night. My darling talked, cajoled, and petted me out of it. And then he took me for ice cream afterwards.
It's hideous. The average IQ there... the high average IQ there has got to be around my typing speed. Which is somewhere above room temperature, which is probably the average IQ of the person in the class. The teacher himself is a moron. He isn't actually teaching, he's regurgitating the book in our general direction. He's one of those people who was probably born in Kentucky of brother and sister. He thinks that by repeating the first answer louder, slower, and in the middle of the clarified question it'll somehow make it true. Or shut the questioner up. I tried it and someone else in the class tried it and you can be damn sure I won't be asking any more questions in the class.
The woman sitting ... well, I sit between this absolute ditz of a woman who reminds me vaguely of the studious prom queen stereotype. She's like Buffy, only without the badassery. I don't think she has two thoughts to her brain. And she smells of bubble gum. And I sit between her and the bf, and then on the other side of him sits this hideously ugly ... what's the phrase Willow used? WannaBlessedBe. She gave her name as Marian... I think... and then when he mispronounced it (actually he did get it pretty close, she just pronounced it with an accent) she apparently muttered for five minutes about how her 'coven sisters' pronounce it. Moh-ray-ahnn. French-sounding. Now, I'm wiccan. I've been for ten years. But I don't go around advertising it anymore, not blatantly the way ... ugh. And I don't go around giving my coven/magickal/crafty/witchy/what the hell ever name to people in my goddamn insurance class! Among other things, that's just bad magickal philosophy. Names have power you unmitigated, lackwitted bint. Or didn't anyone tell you that?
And then there's the truck driver two rows back. Someone commented that he'd put down his entry time as 1732 or some foolishness like that, and he goes "Oh, well, I'm a truck driver, so I'm used to military time." Like it was something to brag about, that he could use a twenty-four hour clock. Okay, first of all, if you have to brag about being able to use a twenty-four hour clock, you have some issues. The main issue being that your friends are all morons. And so, probably, are you. Second... oooh. My lovely sailor boy threw a snit about that later when we were in the car. And, really, I agree. I've never heard it called military time either. Read, occasionally. But never heard. Usually it's called twenty-four hour time (reasonable) or European time (weird, but okay). I have the sneaking suspicion that that truck driver was one of those peculiar breed of people who keeps up on about how oh, I coulda joined the military... yeah, except that you would have failed the physical the second you showed up in your grease-stained shirt and your pit sweat-stains and your beer belly hanging out a foot above your belt. No army in its right mind would take you, you lump.
But yes. Ice cream good.
I don't know how I'm going to survive this class. I'm going to retreat into my own little world, probably. Take notes in small, crabbed handwriting so that the ninny that calls himself a teacher can't read it if he tries to look on. Not notes about the class, mind you. If I want to pass the test I can just read the damn book myself. No, notes about my stories, several chapters of which I might write tomorrow night as tonight we're going to go try and see Once Upon a Time in Mexico. Yay! Spaghetti Mexicans.
I swear, though. I can't take much more of this. There's the Faulknerian Manchild (I stole that from Lynette, I sorry) who I'm just not going to speak to anymore. There's our manager of more hair than wit, who swore up down and sideways, might even have sworn on a stack of Bibles, that we were registered and then said when Brian called the office and had someone get her that she hadn't. There's Tim the WASP who.. ugh. Keeps talking about Those Hardworking Mexicans who... I swear, I doubt he's ever been in more than two words of conversation with an actual Mexican. Or has any idea of what goes happen south of the border except tourism and what he watches on CNN.
Heee. Lovely bf. He suggested that Tim wander around singing that Mexican Radio song. Suddenly all I can think about is my dad making silly grins as he sings me that song when I was very little.
Oh well. My boyfriend brushed my hair, so I feel a little better. It's always comforting to have someone brush your hair. And now we're going to go pick up some sushi so I have a snack in the middle of training.
There is one girl there who's worth talking to.. this pregnant college student lady. She sounded like she had a brain on her shoulders. But... BubbleGum woman. It's scary. I sat next to her, and I had the feeling I wasn't sitting next to a person, I was sitting next to a stereotype.
Oh well. Today we'll trade places, the bf and I, and I'll get to sit next to CrazyGrace and he'll sit next to the Bubblegum Woman.
It's sad that my chief activity in this class is giving these people silly names.
Oh well. Off to another day of torture.
But if that lanky Faulknerian bastard puts his face in mine one more time I will punch him.
Actually, I very nearly walked out of that damn class last night. My darling talked, cajoled, and petted me out of it. And then he took me for ice cream afterwards.
It's hideous. The average IQ there... the high average IQ there has got to be around my typing speed. Which is somewhere above room temperature, which is probably the average IQ of the person in the class. The teacher himself is a moron. He isn't actually teaching, he's regurgitating the book in our general direction. He's one of those people who was probably born in Kentucky of brother and sister. He thinks that by repeating the first answer louder, slower, and in the middle of the clarified question it'll somehow make it true. Or shut the questioner up. I tried it and someone else in the class tried it and you can be damn sure I won't be asking any more questions in the class.
The woman sitting ... well, I sit between this absolute ditz of a woman who reminds me vaguely of the studious prom queen stereotype. She's like Buffy, only without the badassery. I don't think she has two thoughts to her brain. And she smells of bubble gum. And I sit between her and the bf, and then on the other side of him sits this hideously ugly ... what's the phrase Willow used? WannaBlessedBe. She gave her name as Marian... I think... and then when he mispronounced it (actually he did get it pretty close, she just pronounced it with an accent) she apparently muttered for five minutes about how her 'coven sisters' pronounce it. Moh-ray-ahnn. French-sounding. Now, I'm wiccan. I've been for ten years. But I don't go around advertising it anymore, not blatantly the way ... ugh. And I don't go around giving my coven/magickal/crafty/witchy/what the hell ever name to people in my goddamn insurance class! Among other things, that's just bad magickal philosophy. Names have power you unmitigated, lackwitted bint. Or didn't anyone tell you that?
And then there's the truck driver two rows back. Someone commented that he'd put down his entry time as 1732 or some foolishness like that, and he goes "Oh, well, I'm a truck driver, so I'm used to military time." Like it was something to brag about, that he could use a twenty-four hour clock. Okay, first of all, if you have to brag about being able to use a twenty-four hour clock, you have some issues. The main issue being that your friends are all morons. And so, probably, are you. Second... oooh. My lovely sailor boy threw a snit about that later when we were in the car. And, really, I agree. I've never heard it called military time either. Read, occasionally. But never heard. Usually it's called twenty-four hour time (reasonable) or European time (weird, but okay). I have the sneaking suspicion that that truck driver was one of those peculiar breed of people who keeps up on about how oh, I coulda joined the military... yeah, except that you would have failed the physical the second you showed up in your grease-stained shirt and your pit sweat-stains and your beer belly hanging out a foot above your belt. No army in its right mind would take you, you lump.
But yes. Ice cream good.
I don't know how I'm going to survive this class. I'm going to retreat into my own little world, probably. Take notes in small, crabbed handwriting so that the ninny that calls himself a teacher can't read it if he tries to look on. Not notes about the class, mind you. If I want to pass the test I can just read the damn book myself. No, notes about my stories, several chapters of which I might write tomorrow night as tonight we're going to go try and see Once Upon a Time in Mexico. Yay! Spaghetti Mexicans.
I swear, though. I can't take much more of this. There's the Faulknerian Manchild (I stole that from Lynette, I sorry) who I'm just not going to speak to anymore. There's our manager of more hair than wit, who swore up down and sideways, might even have sworn on a stack of Bibles, that we were registered and then said when Brian called the office and had someone get her that she hadn't. There's Tim the WASP who.. ugh. Keeps talking about Those Hardworking Mexicans who... I swear, I doubt he's ever been in more than two words of conversation with an actual Mexican. Or has any idea of what goes happen south of the border except tourism and what he watches on CNN.
Heee. Lovely bf. He suggested that Tim wander around singing that Mexican Radio song. Suddenly all I can think about is my dad making silly grins as he sings me that song when I was very little.
Oh well. My boyfriend brushed my hair, so I feel a little better. It's always comforting to have someone brush your hair. And now we're going to go pick up some sushi so I have a snack in the middle of training.
There is one girl there who's worth talking to.. this pregnant college student lady. She sounded like she had a brain on her shoulders. But... BubbleGum woman. It's scary. I sat next to her, and I had the feeling I wasn't sitting next to a person, I was sitting next to a stereotype.
Oh well. Today we'll trade places, the bf and I, and I'll get to sit next to CrazyGrace and he'll sit next to the Bubblegum Woman.
It's sad that my chief activity in this class is giving these people silly names.
Oh well. Off to another day of torture.
But if that lanky Faulknerian bastard puts his face in mine one more time I will punch him.
