Last fall, this publication wanted to spout their mouth, and so it created a tournament to find the best winter distro class. There were sick references and numbers, but I guess you had to be there. Since I hadn’t written an article in 2 quarters, I had to sign up for the class that won. Unfortunately, the final two courses ended up tying. Guess the editors fucked up rigging the “student-decided contest.” I took Modern Cosmology, because I wanted to learn how to sail by night. I was disappointed, but I switched to pass-no pass (P/NP), and it was the BEST. Here’s what I was thinking throughout:
Week 1: Didn’t show up to class the first day. The bus didn’t show up, and haha, remember snow? Yeah that sucked.
Week 2: Sweet, we’re learning about Tycho Brahe. He had a metal nose, a private science island, and he once got a moose so drunk it died! He also discovered the full phases of Venus. The planet was named for the Roman goddess of love. She’s fly.
Week 3: By now I remembered the distinction between cosmology and astronavigation. No international waters for me. This was about when the equations started showing up, and I realized that this was a sick joke. How could a class like this win the equivalent of a tabloid popularity contest? Then I realized the Sherman Ave readers I actually know. All of them are abhorrent people.
Week 4: Due to the subliminal signals Neil deGrasse Tyson sends off through my laptop, I’m compelled to stay in the class. But, I found an out: Pass, No Pass. Blessed are you, Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has enabled me to reach this moment. I didn’t need the class for credit anyways, so stellar spectra for a grade can step off.
Week 5: My calligraphy is improving. From the start, Prof. Smutko ostracized laptop users to a small corner in the room, but I just switched to notebook. He should have known he can’t contain me. Microsoft Word is a coolly efficient assistant, though she is singular and precise. Writing by hand, however, enables me to draw stick figure fights freely on the page.
Week 6: Third quiz. They’re all multiple choice, but surprisingly demanding. I do adequately, skating a dread’s width above the sweet grade that’ll get me the P.
Week 7: My roommates and I discover True Detective. My class attendance again begins to peter out, but my exposition skills and nihilism are only flourishing.
Week 8: My friends taking the class for a grade now realize the Herculean efforts it requires, and I’m just sitting pretty. They were fooled though. Sherman Ave sold them a false bill of goods, saying the course was an easy A. Incorrect. Shame on you, Sherman Ave. You should be run out of town on a rail.
Week 9: I’m having object permanence issues, if I don’t go to class it doesn’t exist.
Week 10: Everyone passes the class, joy abounds. The freedom from a specific grade was liberating, something I’d wish on every Wildcat. Take that next class pass-no pass.