I Wrote a Paper so Badly it May Have Started a Scandal or Something, but Probably Not
Inevitable Camaraderie with the Atheists in Divinity School
Compared to my first semester of MBA school—I stopped going to class altogether without telling anyone because I was tired of physical violence happening every time I was there—I survived all of my classes. I got three A+ and one “This is barely grade-able because you barely grazed the rubric and shot off into space.”
I was so stressed about the potential of failing a class—even though I have failed classes before, even back in real school when failing a class genuinely affected the trajectory of my life, like middle school and crap—that I had something like jaw-clenching in all of my muscles. I felt like my entire spine was misaligned and everything was so sore it felt like having Covid.
Did I give myself phantom Covid—or real Covid?—just by worrying about my final grade in the one class I didn’t care about? Why how? I knew I was likely to fail, and have failed worse before. I’ve had much worse consequences for failing before. Is it because I don’t have my usual medications?
I don’t know. I don’t really care. When my professor went to the trouble to make all of the good-faith criticism and legitimate feedback of every stage of every assignment, I didn’t do any better.
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