Classes and the Trials Within

08Jan08

My feet hurt. I took a two hour nap at 5:00 PM. My bedroom is freshly vacuumed, the shower drain isn’t clogged with hair yet, and my memory foam hasn’t migrated to the edge of my bed.

Must be the first day of school.

For those of you who have indulged in Eve Ensler’s triumph, The Vagina Monologues, you know that she asks a few of the following questions:

1. If your vagina could talk, what would it say?
2. What would your vagina wear?
3. If you could describe your vagina in one word, what would it be?

Don’t stop to ponder why, but I choose to apply these questions to my first day back to class.

Digression: here’s a bit of background on my day. I have 8 hours of class on Mondays and Wednesdays. That’s 8 hours. Eight. Grueling. Hours. Do you know what that’s like? That’s like getting a brazilian wax, followed by a depilatory, chased with a chemical-laced spray tan, and finished off with a lacy undergarment. That’s like eating a five-alarm burger at Red Robin, chasing it down with Tabasco sauce, catching on fire, then jumping into a volcano.

Okay, it’s not like that. But it sucks.

1. If your first day of class could talk, what would it say?

“Stop this train, I want to get off.”

2. What would your first day of class wear?

Something crotchless (to facilitate the screwing)

3. If you could describe your first day of class in one word, what would it be?

HolycrapthisblowshowtheheckamIgoingtomakeitthroughthisterm


In closing, should you ever encounter me on a Monday or a Wednesday and walk away with 1x fewer heads, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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