So I checked my grades for last semester. The experience was like when you crack open that week-and-a-half old chinese food container just to see what kind of waft will emanate from the disease ridden morsels.
You know it’s going to be bad. But morbid curiosity prompts you to determine how bad.
And oh yes, my grades were that bad. X’s over the eyes. 6 feet under, covered in formaldehyde, and surrounded by a 10 foot thick Chernobyl barricade.
My i’s weren’t dotted, my t’s weren’t slashed, and my unfinished thoughts were scrawled with an off-brand crayon on a highly polished surface. So I had it coming. But if anything, that makes it hurt a little worse.
The Honors Department chair noticed my steady decline of grades. Well, steady decline ending in a rather spectacular plummet. I though they should’ve at least given me points for style. They didn’t agree… And sorry Augie, but even style points won’t levitate that F to an F+. Whatever. An F is so drab. At least an F+ says, “I fail, but I fail with flair.” But I don’t think we believe in that at our academic institution.
Anyway, the honors department chair, sweet lady she is, became rather concerned (dare I say worried), about me, and went so far as to ask a friend if I was on drugs.
I’m not quite sure whether that is depressing or hilarious. But it’s understandably of course, because only a highly altered state of consciousness could possibly account for such an academic decline.
Has a once fertile young mind given up his altogether boundless potential for a life of crime? Has he traded the glorious pursuit of knowledge time for time spent hanging out in back alleys with Meth Man shooting up dangerous meals of Heroin Helper?
Your eyes are more bloodshot than they used to be Augie. You look disoriented and confused. And is it just me, or those molars appear suspiciously loose, Mr. Fash. Have you been stealing tv’s and selling family heirlooms for a hit of the ole white gold? Lift up that shirt! That’s scar tissue building up at 73 degrees latitude, 78 longitude on your left bicep, isn’t it? What did I tell you about proper tourniquet usage?!
So yes, you’ve got me. I’m living a life of crime. Sorry Scruff McGruff. I’ve dissapointed you and your puppet pals. I’m a little down for the count.
