BASTARDS! COWARDS! BASTARDS!
I suppose the point could be argued that I have been lax in my duties to this record. To that I say, "Phooey Kablooey," I will write whenever it so pleases me to do just that. Which should be more often. And I'm sorry it's not.
The reason for my literary absence as of late has been the unsettling-if-not-mortifying scheduling done by Chapman in my particular case. I'm not going to trash the university, I'm not going to say they haven't been wonderful, I'm not even going to say that my instance is anything but probably the exception, but the fact remains that I have been left in a bit of a Vlassic here, and the fault lies squarely on the shoulders of Chapman figureheads.
The story thus far: When first I met with a Counselor from my particular school of study, he outlined the curricular necessities I would require to graduate, and how to read the special list they dole out to the students explaining, in the most confusing way possible, how far along they are and what they still need to complete. In doing this, and this being only weeks before the start of the semester, he painted for me a picture of the ideal classes to take, being so good as to even look up the class listings for me and drawing up a rough schedule to take to the Registrar. So I'd been attending these classes, which I had obediently signed up for, the first three weeks of class when I get two emails from the head of "Transfer Credits," or whatever the department is actually called, telling me that 2... TWO... of the classes I'm enrolled in have already been met through transfer. Two of the three-thousand dollar classes I'm taking are unnecessary.
Boo.
I have thus spent the last week or two running around trying to figure out my options, realizing the last day to drop or add was the previous Friday, coming to terms with the W's I will not recieve, attempting to petition replacement classes that will actually advance my career, attempting to catch up on three weeks of introductory sessions in said classes, while not dropping the two classes I don't need lest my petitions not go through. Weak.
On the plus side, this did put me in touch with the head of "No, that Don't Count," or whatever we choose to call it here, and in our communication (and, specifically, in my niggling) I've found a few other requirements I don't need from having completed them in transfer. Nothing I'm enrolled in now, of course, but stuff that will save me some time and drang later on in the ol' Chapman career. Still waiting to find out if the petitions went through, which shouldn't be a problem, hopefully.
So between work and school and, O hobby of hobbies, the SCA, I'm getting my fuckin' ass kicked here, guys! I'm not one to complain, nor am I one to get beat simply by exhaustion, nor am I one to take a schedule of any kind that would put me in the position of constantly working, but here I am, and here I go, and off we go together, you know?
I don't either.
Point is, I'm dying here. Every day I'm more tired, every day it's harder to get up. Not in any kind of "oh, life's not worth living" kind of way, but in an honest, "Man, my body does not want to listen to my head" kind of way. I find myself stumbling to the alarm clock more and more, and remembering the events prior to sitting down in class that get me to school less and less. I wonder, honestly, how much longer I can do this.
Find the door, and the way is clear. Look at the bunny, he'll spit in your ear.
The reason for my literary absence as of late has been the unsettling-if-not-mortifying scheduling done by Chapman in my particular case. I'm not going to trash the university, I'm not going to say they haven't been wonderful, I'm not even going to say that my instance is anything but probably the exception, but the fact remains that I have been left in a bit of a Vlassic here, and the fault lies squarely on the shoulders of Chapman figureheads.
The story thus far: When first I met with a Counselor from my particular school of study, he outlined the curricular necessities I would require to graduate, and how to read the special list they dole out to the students explaining, in the most confusing way possible, how far along they are and what they still need to complete. In doing this, and this being only weeks before the start of the semester, he painted for me a picture of the ideal classes to take, being so good as to even look up the class listings for me and drawing up a rough schedule to take to the Registrar. So I'd been attending these classes, which I had obediently signed up for, the first three weeks of class when I get two emails from the head of "Transfer Credits," or whatever the department is actually called, telling me that 2... TWO... of the classes I'm enrolled in have already been met through transfer. Two of the three-thousand dollar classes I'm taking are unnecessary.
Boo.
I have thus spent the last week or two running around trying to figure out my options, realizing the last day to drop or add was the previous Friday, coming to terms with the W's I will not recieve, attempting to petition replacement classes that will actually advance my career, attempting to catch up on three weeks of introductory sessions in said classes, while not dropping the two classes I don't need lest my petitions not go through. Weak.
On the plus side, this did put me in touch with the head of "No, that Don't Count," or whatever we choose to call it here, and in our communication (and, specifically, in my niggling) I've found a few other requirements I don't need from having completed them in transfer. Nothing I'm enrolled in now, of course, but stuff that will save me some time and drang later on in the ol' Chapman career. Still waiting to find out if the petitions went through, which shouldn't be a problem, hopefully.
So between work and school and, O hobby of hobbies, the SCA, I'm getting my fuckin' ass kicked here, guys! I'm not one to complain, nor am I one to get beat simply by exhaustion, nor am I one to take a schedule of any kind that would put me in the position of constantly working, but here I am, and here I go, and off we go together, you know?
I don't either.
Point is, I'm dying here. Every day I'm more tired, every day it's harder to get up. Not in any kind of "oh, life's not worth living" kind of way, but in an honest, "Man, my body does not want to listen to my head" kind of way. I find myself stumbling to the alarm clock more and more, and remembering the events prior to sitting down in class that get me to school less and less. I wonder, honestly, how much longer I can do this.
Find the door, and the way is clear. Look at the bunny, he'll spit in your ear.
posted by DeadLanguage at 11:02 AM
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