Classes

I am kind of apathetic about my classes this semester, and not because any of them are even close to sucking. Well, one of them is. I'll discuss them in the order I see them in a day:

Mondays and Wednesdays I have a Virginia Woolf/Eudora Welty seminar which seems like it might be interesting but whose subject matters seems to have less to do with any literature and more to do with women's rights, which would be fine if it stopped there. But it seems the professor is a (literal--see her saggy tits) bra-burning, cardholding feminist who, while nice, seems hell bent on putting that sort of meaning even where it won't exist. I also realized why the name "Eudora Welty" sounded so familiar when I heard it in the Spring when I signed up for this class: I suffered through the transcribed series of her lectures (One Writer's Beginnings) Senior Year and must do it again. On a positive note, I am sure I will enjoy Virginia Woolf.

My next class meets Tuesday and Thursday mornings and is taught by the always imcompetence Kathryn VanCunteren, whose idiocy is matched only by her inconsistency in what she calls "teaching"--the woman managed to veer off into into a discussion about riding elephants in Burma during the first five minutes of lecturing about AMERICAN history and also managed to reprimand me for speaking even though I was the only one in twenty students who could manage to say what was so damned important about the year 1804 in relation to US history.

Fucking dumb cunt.

I have Dr. Morril for four hours straight on Tuesdays and Thursdays, first for Poetic Forms and then for Poetry Writing II, both of which promise to be great outlets for me to improve my poetry, unlike last spring's class taught by the aforementioned VanCunteren, whose irrelevant criticisms and misleading praise allowed me to run circles around the rest of class while earning a grade lower than most of them. I like this guy; although I knew I would: he is my advisor (the always lovely Lisa Birnbaum)'s husband.

Anyway, that's that.

The roommate situation this year is pretty good. All of the girls seems very nice, from basketball players Whitney and Jen to the always wonderful Stephanie(s) and Gizmo, to the quiet 25-year old in the back room whose name I couldn't remember if my LIFE depended on it. On the guys' side, Cole and Scott are back. Scott actually LOOKS older and more mature but the word from the grapevine is that he's been talking loads of shit about me along with Cole, who has surprisingly become MORE of a fashion-ignorant nerd over the summer, despite his (applauadable) act of getting contacts. My immediate neighbor is a delightful skater boy named Will, next is someone else whose name I don't remember, an Italian from the Northeast (ed: at UT? NEVER!), and there are three delicious blond boys in the front room, all freshman, all built to a scary extent, and probably all immature/insecure.

There is also a bottle of water on my desk and a short story that needs to have more added onto it; there are three textbooks that need to be read and nine more that need to get here. In short, there are ten fingers attacking this keyboard and the brain of the body to which they are attached needs to transcend this blog for now.

Toodles!