Academia: the Last Refuge of the Coward

The first thing the CowardlyAcademe assigned this semester asked students to talk about their first week at the university. Responses included stories about hideously racist encounters ("Why do black people only drink cheap booze?") and being abandoned by parents. I, uh, okay.

Look, the class is based around ideas of what is appropriate and inappropriate language, so let's do a softball. Tell me an incident in which you offended somebody or somebody offended you. Quick writeup. The CowardlyAcademe was not expecting, "I hate this phrase because it's what my mom calls me when she's drunk."

There's a reason the CowardlyAcademe is not a damn guidance counselor.

Student sends email:
If I am not in class on Monday, it's because I killed my roommate after she threw out a bunch of the papers I need for the course. I'm trying to figure out what to do.

Logical response:
You can still come to class. Just don't get caught.
http://www.ehow.com/how_2107426_dispose-dead-body.html

My advisor, that is. He's impossible to track down except by physically attacking him. Nearly two months ago, I sent him the chapter abstracts he asked for, and waited patiently for his response, knowing that he was busy and not wanting to bother him. (In the meanwhile, I worked on the first chapter.) Finally someone else in the program emailed both of us asking for some information on my progress.

I just received an email from him asking for some work so he can respond to that email.

He is henceforth the Black Hole, a power of such immense suck that nothing, not even hope, can escape.

Putting the bread in the toaster.

Depressing the lever.

Assembling the toppings for the toast (as it is too hot to cook, you have been eating Things on Toast for a week).

Hearing the toaster pop up.

Blinking stupidly at the magically-empty toaster.



. . . oh, well, the top of the recycling bin was FAIRLY clean . . .

That is, Student's writing is full of sound and fury, and signifying absolutely fuck-all. Ahem:

"To look at literature as literature is to be ever perspicacious in objectively concluding the extent to which the aesthetics of a piece achieve the goal of the writer, namely that which is contained in the predicate of such profession - craft."

Student also used "lexical" as a noun, which hurt the Cowardly Academe in a special way.

The Cowardly Academe has recently discovered that it needs to find a new apartment at an inconvenient time of year, and has started haunting craigslist ads in order to find one. Also I have spent a lot of time curled up into a small ball, whimpering. Last night, I sent off a batch of emails to places that looked okay - some to live in by myself, some being offered by people with extra rooms.

One shared one I responded to because it made me laugh pretty hard - it was for a bedroom in a place where the respondent had to be understanding because the other people hosted D&D on Saturday afternoons. I sent an email to the anonymous poster, asking some questions about the place and explaining that I currently host a weekly RPG session myself. He responded a few hours later, a response I did not receive until this morning. At which point I stared with horror at his name and responded:

"Oh, shit, you asshole. I cannot live with you. You are a former student."

The kind that says, "Go on, tell me your problems. Confide in me. I am a womb of love and understanding."

Not that this is always true, but it appears to have been scribbled lightly on my forehead and won't come off no matter how hard I cry and scrub in the shower.

This is occasionally useful in figuring out what the fuck is going on, as when a student reveals that the reason he's barely functioning in class is that he's just come out to his whole family and is trying not to get kicked out of the house. ("Oh. Uh. Yeah, take another week on that paper then. That's cool.")

This is occasionally frighteningly useful, as when a student reveals that he hasn't turned in any work because he had a psychotic break and was involuntarily committed. (". . . you know what? Just don't ever turn in that paper. Whatever. Just - you know, as long as I survive the semester and don't die at your hands, I'm golden.")


And then there's the rest of the world. As the CowardlyAcademe waits for a local bus:

Errand-Running Woman (probably in her late forties, conservatively dressed, carrying a couple of shopping bags, totally standard): Are you waiting for a bus? What bus?

CowardlyAcademe: Oh, yeah. Well, we just missed the four, but the three shouldn't be too long.

ERW: Oh, I know! Just missed it! Just missed it! I'm SO mad! I have an appointment
at two. With, well, you can guess who.

CA: (Am I being slow?) Hmm?

ERW: Bob Dylan.

CA: Oh. Uh. Yes?

ERW: (Yanking off left glove, revealing two very nice identical rings on her ring finger.) You see these?

CA: Mm.

ERW: Platinum. You know who had to buy these? Me, of course.

CA: . . . I'm sorry.

ERW: You know, he's drinking so much now he's going to have to have a liver transplant.

CA: Really? Jeez.

ERW: We have this special relationship, though, because I sent him a fossil.

CA: A fossil?

ERW: A fossil necklace.

CA: (Nodding as though I now magically know what the fuck is going on) Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh.

ERW: Well, I'm hungry and the bus is fifteen minutes away. I'm going to go get a sandwich. Save my place in line!

(CA nods, ERW trots away. CA cautiously approaches Obvious Lesbian, who approached the bus stop during the end of the conversation and is obviously waiting for the bus.)


CA: Do . . . did you see that woman? I think she's crazy.

OL: I am having the worst day. I just broke up with my girlfriend.


The CowardlyAcademe is currently eying an electric stove and trying to determine whether extensive facial scarring makes one more or less approachable.