There’s only so much I can do to occupy myself during a boring lecture, especially a history one. Why is the clock is not going anywhere; who is that hot girl in the front row; why is that girl over there looking at me; is that guy staring at me; how man other guys are looking at this same girl; does the professor uses Poli-dent or Poli-grip? This questions entertain for only so long.
Regardless, I still love history as a subject, living for the seemingly insignificant details of an ancient society long obliterated by the colonizing forces of the West. Who’s to say critiquing the moronic military blunders that cost a proud nation a couple hundred troops and a bit of territory to boot can’t be enjoyable?
I can’t say the same for my fellow classmates, however. No one (except the scattered bookworm and the diehard RISK player, who theorized how to translate the hard-hitting military tactics of Sun Tzu into die-throwing techniques), appreciated the many subtleties of such a great subject.
For Shame!
Still, there was one thing that spoiled the nuances, the beauty, and the ‘fun’ of history even for me. That ‘thing’ stood in front of over 350 students, gesturing like a madman run out of options, negotiating with the fuzz: professor Gutsell, and many professors just like him, tore the hearts out of once lively subjects, leaving them rotting corpses by the side of the road. Their oh-so-drôle asides, their monotonous tone - bah!
During our review lecture, Gutsell mentioned how ‘ironic’ it was ‘that revolutionary France, in its attempt to oust a perceived tyrant, set the stage for an actual tyrant to take the formers place.’ I half expected to hear scattered ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from the crowd, but nobody cared. At that point the urge to better acquaint myself with the desk was overwhelming.
“Meno!”
Hanabi Minowa said, poking me underneath my rib-cage with one of her long, bony fingers. Hanabi was some Asian girl with an inability to shut the fuck up. I guess we’re friends.
“Gutsell can see you!”
“What difference does it make?” I whispered. “Half of this lecture-hall is asleep.”
“Yeah, but we’re in the front row. He’ll point you out and you know that.”
She had a point. Gutsell didn’t take too kindly to people nodding off during his lectures. I’d seen the prof dish out some pretty cold tell-offs. Students didn’t try to come back with anything, either too embarrassed or afraid everybody would find out what urine does to white khakis.
Hanabi reached into her bag and ripped a sheet of paper from a binder within. She placed the page on the desk and wrote, ‘What are you doing this weekend?’
I replied ‘Probably going to the Cock and Bull with the guys tonight, heading somewhere later if we’re up to it. Tomorrow, not sure. You?’
‘Tonight I’m going to go see a band called Flashlight with friends. Don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow either. Wanna study for the mid-term… if you’re free?’
Gutsell’s toupee was lopsided again.
‘Suuuuure! I like poop!’ I wrote.
Gutsell’s toupee was falling off. I wanted to point it out to Hanabi, but she was too busy staring cock-eyed at the page to pay attention.
‘You like poop?’
‘Who doesn’t like poop?’
‘You’re an odd duck!’ she scribbled with a big smile on her face. ‘Let’s meet up. Anytime before four is okay with me. You?’
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