Have I ever mentioned that I hate school?
Someone usually responds to such statements by saying, “what’s the matter, you don’t like learning?” Actually punching such people in the teeth would be excessive. Perhaps a boot to the gut would suffice. “No, moron, it’s not that I don’t like learning. I learn every day, in every way, in the same way that people like Edison and Lincoln learned: with books, and by talking to people, not by sitting in some classroom, sweating out the minutes, wishing to God I was somewhere else.”
Every once in a while I’ll say that to someone, and they’ll chuckle at me indulgently. The funny thing? They appear to be completely unaware that in response to their chuckling, my primary urge is to put my fist through their teeth.
I hate school. I don’t mean it’s a pain in the ass. I don’t mean it’s annoying. I mean that if you told me today that if I drove a red-hot nail through my hand and in exchange for that I could have my degree and wouldn’t have to go to class anymore, in two seconds that nail would be through my hand.
I’m not joking. I’m not being hyperbolic, either.
Week in and week out of having to drag myself to an experience I loathe so deeply and so passionately has been one of the biggest psychic energy drains on me of the last two and a half years. Comforting to know I’ve only got a year and a half of it left, I suppose. “Over the hump” and all that. Although still, to this day, every time I’m presented with an excuse to quit, I have to spend a long time talking myself out of it.