One of the things I hate the most about myself is how sensitive I am. A couple of words from the right person have the power to, either, make me storm out of the room or cry. Or both. Sure I calm down soon afterwards, but that doesn’t take away the fact that I’ve made a big deal about stuff as silly as British Man collecting peakyrinds faster that I did at this online game we –er- make fun of while we discuss sex, drugs and the rest of really cool stuff we do. Yeah. He says I’m just being passionate, but after the
peakyrinds marihuana anal sex, ok, peakyrinds incident of 2012 he’s not going into the suicide mission of asking me not to get my panties all in a bunch.
However, I have this objective in which the little strength that I’ve been given it’s going to be used - not on useless things as giving birth and such but - on acting as a champ whenever I get corrections for my Architectural Projects class.
For those who don’t know how it works, this class is about pretending you’re a graduated architect and someone is stupid enough to hire you for a job. You’re given a project with a long list of requirements and restrictions which you have to follow if you want to pass the subject. Professors for these subjects are working architects who earn some extra money by spending a couple of hours a week checking on your progress and telling you what a big loser you are and, if they are in an specifically bad mood, they might advice you to reconsider your career options.
Through all these years of being a student I’ve seen girls cry, guys get really angry and some people simply take on the advice and reconsider their profession to, finally, drop it. I think I can recall getting a bit offended the first time a teacher didn’t tell me what a special little snowflake I was. Nevertheless, now, I’m really cool with it. Me. Miss I-have-cried-not –only-when-Bambi’s-mother-dies,-but-every-time-I-remember-it. I’m cool with harsh criticism. Not regular cool. Marihuana-and-anal kind of cool.
Last Monday was the perfect example. A girl went first, she left the room as soon as she was done and came back 20 minute later with bloodshot eyes. The guy before me chickened out. The professor took the chance to remind us we are disappointing him, then he added “who’s next?” That was me. I approached him with the same spark of hope only a naïve rosy-cheeked teenager can carry before she gets sliced in two with a rusty ax.
He started with the regular “no, no, no… no” that always comes accompanied with him scratching the blueprints I worked all weekend on, in which the only exercise and fresh air I got was when I stood up to open up the window. ‘I should move the location of the bathroom, and the kitchen, and the main bedroom, and the other rooms would look better on that other place. Keep the font. The font is nice’. While the common response for stupidity is an excuse or a weak defense I went for a “you’re right'”. Then he told me shapes must fulfill a purpose, I shouldn’t simply draw whatever comes out of my ass. I laughed, because if you’re lucky enough to have a professor who says ass so casually, you have to laugh.
I walked away, not before thanking him for ripping apart my soul and destroying my dreams (although, I omitted the soul and dreams shit); a guy asked me how it went, “could’ve been worse” answered Miss Grown-up-pants.