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if you're crazy and you know it clap your hands
Yeah, I'm in a bad place.
Here's my feelings on being an English major at Smith: It's all right. Not bad, not great. There are some very great profs, although I've always had the feeling that probably only English major types will think so, as "great" often coincides with "absolutely whacked" in this department. (Then there are people like Doug Patey, advisor extraordinaire, who are both brilliant *and* sane, but that's rare, very rare.) My English classes are almost always entertaining, and I almost always find myself liking things I never thought I'd like. And still loathing some things, but that's life.
The surprising thing about English classes: we don't write many papers. At all. Last year for the second semester of 200d (now extinct, alas) we had one paper. One. Length? Five pages. *Five*. That's it.
More common is two five page papers per class. 100-level colloquia are designed pretty much to fulfill the writing requirement, so a lot of those have about four papers, but, like all 100-levels, the grading's much nicer, the material itself is easier to begin with, and finals, when they exist at all, are a breeze.
Not so for 200-levels, which nearly always have both a final *and* a midterm. Call me crazy, but after four semesters of two 200-level English classes each, I have yet to understand the point of testing knowledge of literature. I don't get the point of id's.
But whatever. I'm just finding it ironic, I guess, that the only finals I've had this year have been in my English classes. I'm probably just bitter because I suck at tests. Always have, always will.
I took Chaucer because it was a choice between that or Milton, and an entire semester of Paradise Lost would drive me insaner than I already am. I had no plans to like it. That I haven't hated it should be good enough. That I rather enjoyed mastering Middle English should be a good thing. But right now all I can think is ohgodmypaperSUCKS and Idon'twanttotakethisgoddamnfinal.
Forty-eight hours and it all goes away. Must focus on that.
The best thing about going home is that I get to sleep for about fourteen consecutive hours. The second best thing is that I always get at least a week to do nothing. This year I get three weeks, followed by two weeks of cross country travel/lounging at L's lovely home, and then another week of nothing to do, and then nine weeks of the only job I've ever looked forward to in my life. It should be a good summer, which is a good thing. Last summers should be fun. I'll never have another one again.
It is suddenly very real, this end-of-junior-year thing. In a year I'll graduate. This is frightening.
Here's my feelings on being an English major at Smith: It's all right. Not bad, not great. There are some very great profs, although I've always had the feeling that probably only English major types will think so, as "great" often coincides with "absolutely whacked" in this department. (Then there are people like Doug Patey, advisor extraordinaire, who are both brilliant *and* sane, but that's rare, very rare.) My English classes are almost always entertaining, and I almost always find myself liking things I never thought I'd like. And still loathing some things, but that's life.
The surprising thing about English classes: we don't write many papers. At all. Last year for the second semester of 200d (now extinct, alas) we had one paper. One. Length? Five pages. *Five*. That's it.
More common is two five page papers per class. 100-level colloquia are designed pretty much to fulfill the writing requirement, so a lot of those have about four papers, but, like all 100-levels, the grading's much nicer, the material itself is easier to begin with, and finals, when they exist at all, are a breeze.
Not so for 200-levels, which nearly always have both a final *and* a midterm. Call me crazy, but after four semesters of two 200-level English classes each, I have yet to understand the point of testing knowledge of literature. I don't get the point of id's.
But whatever. I'm just finding it ironic, I guess, that the only finals I've had this year have been in my English classes. I'm probably just bitter because I suck at tests. Always have, always will.
I took Chaucer because it was a choice between that or Milton, and an entire semester of Paradise Lost would drive me insaner than I already am. I had no plans to like it. That I haven't hated it should be good enough. That I rather enjoyed mastering Middle English should be a good thing. But right now all I can think is ohgodmypaperSUCKS and Idon'twanttotakethisgoddamnfinal.
Forty-eight hours and it all goes away. Must focus on that.
The best thing about going home is that I get to sleep for about fourteen consecutive hours. The second best thing is that I always get at least a week to do nothing. This year I get three weeks, followed by two weeks of cross country travel/lounging at L's lovely home, and then another week of nothing to do, and then nine weeks of the only job I've ever looked forward to in my life. It should be a good summer, which is a good thing. Last summers should be fun. I'll never have another one again.
It is suddenly very real, this end-of-junior-year thing. In a year I'll graduate. This is frightening.
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-your crazy friend tainted_love