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A Bulletin From The Past before/after Bulletin from the past: I walked into my psychological statistics class late. Like assed late. Not five minutes late, but at least a good fifteen. I don't remember why, but, at least at the time, being on time to class wasn't a priority. Eating, chasing girls and doing drugs was. And drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. We each learn in our own way about the things we wish to know. Anyway, this was supposed to be a 'weeder' class that tosses out the unfit students, which the instructor vehemently denied. Later on in life, I realized they let anyone be a psy student. But there was a lot of homework associated with the class, much as there is with any psy stat class. And this one was held not too far from my dorm, in a pit style lecture hall. Indeed, the pit. The lecturer, the professor, down at the middle, three hundred and fifty unwilling souls seated around, furiously taking notes about what little they understood, only taking the class because it was required, attendance mandatory and part of the grade, the lights low as he scribbles on the overhead, me trundling in with more than a few days facial hair growth and a wicked hangover, just wanting to hand in my homework, trundling my papers noisly before the class, my footsteps echoing on the quiet boards in the otherwise silent classroom as I make my way to the front, fumbling through my notebook, finding the required work and placing it on the stack of papers before me. "WHY are you handing that in?" the professor tersely demanded. "Because I was late." I snapped back, a bit more harshly than I intended. Didn't mean to snap, really. Its just the hangover. Hangovers affect my inflection negatively. Someone in the class bleated a laugh nervously. He was clearly taken aback by this development, I think he expected me to meekly comply and remove it from the pile or something, a good little lemming. I may have intimidated him a little, I'm not sure. I do know that I looked a little bit like a crazy fuck in a normal kids body. Today, it takes someone a little while to realize this. But as Bukowski said, there are all types of madness, and some of them are quite wonderful. "Well," he said, backpedalling, "Don't let it happen again." I grunted dismissively, shuffled my way to my seat. Took some notes, left early and went back to the cafe to eat.
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