Bad Schedule + Creepy Advisor = I Hate School

Here's a little diddy I like to call I Hate School.

Just when I'm getting all psyched to finally graduate in May with my handy-dandy associates degree in Liberal Arts (which means nothing) turns out as just as I'm nearing the end of my journey at good ol' MVCC I've basically taken all of the classes and end up with a plate of leftovers.

For example, let's take a look at my upcoming semester schedule for January:

In order to fulfill my prerequisites I need:

Bio 102 - major suckfest part deux.

Health and Wellness, which is a book form of a gym class because Marissa hates getting sweaty, though apparently she likes to talk about herself in third person.

Modern Literature - shouldn't be as bad as Hamlet, I hope. Maybe we'll get to read about the adventures of Hamsteak instead.

And, since I'm awesome and am exempt from 2 years of languages, I need to take 2 electives to take its place, on top of another elective to finish-up the bullshit class area of my plan of study.

Urban Sociology - learning what goes on in the heads of homies.

Adolescent Psychology - learning what goes on in the heads of lil' homies.

American National Government - learning what goes on in the heads of political homies.

Fabulosity at it's finest, no?

So I went to go visit my advisor today. He's a burly man with a crustache and bad fashion sense. By bad fashion sense I mean corderoy jackets, jesus sandals with Hanes 3 for 1 socks and jeans. All goes perfect with that bright orange mop on his head. He's not even my real advisor. From the moment I entered that school, I was the victim of an unfortunate game of musical advisors and ended up getting the ringmaster. He was also my teacher for 2 semesters and like most people, he grew a liking to me (c'mon! it's inevitable and you know it!). Well, maybe liking is an understatement. I don't know what to call it. Borderline obsession maybe? Take the other day for example:

BFF and I and one of our mutual friends are sitting on a bench outside talking to each other, minding our own damn businesses. Enter advisor, clutching his overread magazine I Have Daddy Issues in his arms. He catches my glance. I turn away. I know whats coming.

Lookin' good! Sizzle sizzle!

The three of us watch in utter disbelief as he stalks away. I could only imagine the image of us on the bench, our mouths in the shape of an O. We must've looked like we were caroling or something. BFF interrupts the aura-of-shockedness by retorting, "OH MY GOD!"

Oh my god is right. Not to mention that one time he had a bit too much to drink at a school function and came over and ever so gracefully brushed my breast with his hand. And then laughed about it. Have another one, you lush. ANYHOW...back to my story. Talk about a mile-long tangent. Although you did need the background info for my more current and up to date story about this afternoon.

I walk into his office and he's sitting there amid dusty back issues of I Have Daddy Back Issues (haha!) and torn Elephant Man posters, among cartons of old chinese food and pizza boxes ( did I mention this man is a COW?) I drop my books and take a seat. "Hey Honey."

"Hey yourself."

To an outsider it must sound like he's having an extra-marital affair with a student. But can you blame him? He's married to an oversized Ken doll that wears Jean Nate` and gold fanny packs.

He does my scheduling for me (no, seriously, by scheduling I mean scheduling!) and offers to walk out with me. As he gets up to grab his coat I sneak an eye roll and a half and a silent UGH to the bad alignment of the advisor planets. Just what I wanted, burly butch lesbian man to walk me to my car.

And I thought that would be the bad part.

As we walk down the hall together, my hands strategically placed in my pockets so he doesn't try to be all married-boyfriend-man like and try to hold it while no one is looking, a girl walks past us, seemingly normal, right? Wrong.

"She was checking you out." I smell old man wood.

I almost vomited.

I chose the stairs instead of the elevator. I figured if I were to yell "RAPE!" it would echo and someone would come to my rescue, as opposed to him pressing the emergency stop button for an emergency quickie with a student. If you saw the word CREEPLE in a dictionary, his picture would be next to it, smiling with orange Cheetos dust surrounding his piehole.

How do I get into these messes?

At the bottom of the stairs, I could hear his heavy-breathing not far behind. What's the matter big advisorman, I thought to myself, out of shape? But I already knew the answer to my silent question: Unless your shape is BLOBULAR.

Thankfully he had a detour en route to my car and I ditched him like beef during the mad cow disease threat.

Jennifer, if only you were my advisor.

And Sidebeards, I fixed my journal controls and found the prob, thought you might like to comment on this one.