My Own Personal Hell

Today I finished some scholarship stuff (finally) listened to some more Muse (wondering yet again how Matthew Bellamy gets his voice that high without effort) and doing math.

Do I need to remind my small yet wary audience that my detestation for this subject increases by the microsecond? No? Okay.

But I think I scared two girls in the hallway with my little spiel about how I hated it, and as I was telling my roommate, rather vehemently, that the whole damned subject should be cursed to the pits of hell, and that if I ever visited hell, however briefly, that I was sure millions of graphing problems would be waiting for me in a locked room.

I would be fine if I had even an inkling of understanding for it, but the inkling left on the last train. Now I'm fighting already to keep up (Week 3?).

The tutor (bless her little positive soul) tells me I am so NEGATIVE, that if I just TRIED, that if I just WORKED at it, then apparently it would descend on me like angels landing on the halo of God, like water from a drainspout, like a rainbow with a gold pot to clunk me on the head sharply and WHAM-BANG. There I'd be, a genius.

If I could tell the difference between negative and positive, you bet your rumblebuttons that'd I'd be the plus sign. Whichever one that is.

But after 4 years of college, after 3 rounds of 010 and being caught in the 2nd round of 020, my positiveness is waning fast. Everyone else my age has pushed right past it and is done with the blasted subject, while I sit and get frustrated in a sophomore-level class. So, I'm sorry if I don't get it. I'm sorry if I act dumb, but let's face it: I AM DUMB. At this subject anyway.

The tutor thinks she can save me from my dumbness. Fat chance. Others have tried; none have succeeded. I applaud her efforts, but I already told her that I and her are merely together two days a week to get me THROUGH the subject, not TEACH me anything.

Try and tell her this-she's like a little ray of sunshine trying to gleam through the murky depths of my mind. And she's not getting anywhere. Today already I got the classic question: Didn't you KNOW this last week?

I probably did. I don't this week.

She just looked confused. Try being me. I'm very, very confused.

I can't WAIT to pass this subject. I can't wait to have a life where I don't care anymore what the functions are doing. Speaking of which:

These notes were written in a high school math class. They were supposed to be on factor boxes, but I was never a great math student and I never had more than the attention span of a gnat.

Hence, The Factor Boxes’ Purpose, Argued For And Against By ME

Introducing FACTOR BOXES (dun dun dun daah kssh)

Well, actually, they start like this and end up like this and then you fill them with your favorite hotdogs (and condiments FIT!)

No actually you use them for math

HOT DOGS

‘fraid not. How would you fit one in?

MAKE THE BOXES BIGGER

I can’t do all my problems on a page if I make them bigger.

WHO CARES ABOUT THEM? HOT DOGS!

Will you stop yelling at me? And you’re wasting paper with this useless argument.

USELESS? USELESS? WHY I OUGHTA…

Hey, don’t get your feathers in a knot.

WHY DON’T YOU STOP TELLING ME FACTOR BOXES ARE FOR MATH?

Because they are…

DON’T GIVE ME THAT! WHAT DO YOU KNOW YOU REGULAR TYPE FREAK?

are you insulting my writing?

YES.

oooh…