The semester started like every other: I swear that I’ll go to lecture. I miss my bus that was seven minutes late. I curse fate for inhibiting learning that I truly value and show up for. I pull up CalCentral 10 minutes before class to make sure all my classes are in Dwinelle like usual. That is, until I see it: Rhetoric-103B, Barker 101.
At 8:00 AM, I don’t even have the energy to rebut every single one of the Professor’s points or talk over all of my female classmates. How can I be an effective student of politics if I’m too sleep-deprived to explain why straight white men are the most oppressed group in America?
“It’s like watching my son go through puberty in one night – from little league straight to whacking home-runs on more steroids than contained in an asthmatic inhaler,” stuttered my hornswoggled housemate, Dylan Hamuy. “I mean you should have seen the state of the room before this; it was a tasteful, subdued mix of stolen traffic signs and FedEx-printed low-res jpegs pasted to the walls, with some under-exposed polaroids peppered in for flavor. But now? We’re looking at the big leagues. That’s right, frames have hit the room!”