LETTER FROM: Chutney Bundals
Issue date: 2/22/06 Section: Commentary
- Page 1 of 1
To: jeremyspoke@gmail.com
From: chutneybundals@yahoo.com
Jeremy-
I'm sure that there are a great many things worse than running into a professor after you've just wantonly skipped her class, but none are immediately leaping to mind right now.
I'm taking Romantic Literature, which, I'm sure you can guess, is difficult territory for me. There is all this needless talk about trees and birds (Why are birds so important in poetry?) and copses, hillocks, dales and fields. I've been camping once. That ill-advised trip ended in chapped feet and a strange rash, which, since I was too embarrassed to admit the intensity and location of said rash, took me three weeks to cure myself of by trying all forms of internet-suggested remedies. Wordsworth brings with him flashbacks of that traumatic time, and so I skipped.
I had no good reason for skipping. I merely went to lunch with a friend and watched part of Maury Povitch, whose show that day was, "My Father's a Transsexual Werewolf … Or Is She?? DNA Tests Prove Which Pooch Has Paternity." I know, not exactly a good excuse for missing class, but it was fascinating to see the werewolves' family dynamics.
After this class, there was a class that I really could not skip because I had to give a presentation. Unfortunately, it's in the same building as the skipped class. I had not considered this and the possible awkwardness it would cause until it was too late. I threw open the door to Carpenter and nearly bowled my professor over. She simply looked at me, then looked away, then said, "How are you, Chutney?" I don't think she was really inquiring about my welfare, but rather making a point that she knew I wasn't in her class, since she kept walking and didn't give me a chance to respond.
I felt so awful and so ashamed that my head started spinning and I really couldn't be expected to make the next class even though I had to give that stupid presentation. I thought about running after the professor and explaining it all to her. Then I realized I had nothing to explain, unless she wanted to know the paternity results from Maury. I began envisioning all the different places on campus that I could possibly run into her again. To my frantic thinking, no place was safe, so I went where I usually go to collect my thoughts in calm, unpeopled peace: the art village.
I hid myself in one of two installations by a visiting UTA grad student. One was called, Untitled, but had a question mark after it. The second one was called, The Symptoms of our Despair. This one had a lot of toilet paper tubes. The grad student found me lurking, and with an indescribably sad face, pointed to the tubes and softly murmured, "Waste."
~Chutney
From: chutneybundals@yahoo.com
Jeremy-
I'm sure that there are a great many things worse than running into a professor after you've just wantonly skipped her class, but none are immediately leaping to mind right now.
I'm taking Romantic Literature, which, I'm sure you can guess, is difficult territory for me. There is all this needless talk about trees and birds (Why are birds so important in poetry?) and copses, hillocks, dales and fields. I've been camping once. That ill-advised trip ended in chapped feet and a strange rash, which, since I was too embarrassed to admit the intensity and location of said rash, took me three weeks to cure myself of by trying all forms of internet-suggested remedies. Wordsworth brings with him flashbacks of that traumatic time, and so I skipped.
I had no good reason for skipping. I merely went to lunch with a friend and watched part of Maury Povitch, whose show that day was, "My Father's a Transsexual Werewolf … Or Is She?? DNA Tests Prove Which Pooch Has Paternity." I know, not exactly a good excuse for missing class, but it was fascinating to see the werewolves' family dynamics.
After this class, there was a class that I really could not skip because I had to give a presentation. Unfortunately, it's in the same building as the skipped class. I had not considered this and the possible awkwardness it would cause until it was too late. I threw open the door to Carpenter and nearly bowled my professor over. She simply looked at me, then looked away, then said, "How are you, Chutney?" I don't think she was really inquiring about my welfare, but rather making a point that she knew I wasn't in her class, since she kept walking and didn't give me a chance to respond.
I felt so awful and so ashamed that my head started spinning and I really couldn't be expected to make the next class even though I had to give that stupid presentation. I thought about running after the professor and explaining it all to her. Then I realized I had nothing to explain, unless she wanted to know the paternity results from Maury. I began envisioning all the different places on campus that I could possibly run into her again. To my frantic thinking, no place was safe, so I went where I usually go to collect my thoughts in calm, unpeopled peace: the art village.
I hid myself in one of two installations by a visiting UTA grad student. One was called, Untitled, but had a question mark after it. The second one was called, The Symptoms of our Despair. This one had a lot of toilet paper tubes. The grad student found me lurking, and with an indescribably sad face, pointed to the tubes and softly murmured, "Waste."
~Chutney