Spring is dragging its bloated corpse around the corner from Ted’s, hungover and full of regrets, which means it’s time for all the fucking problems that come with fall class registration. There’s nothing quite like stressing out about next semester when you’re not even close to being done with this semester. To help you cope, know the stages. Roll the clip! (There is no clip just keep reading.)
Stage 1 — Denial and Isolation:
If your pick time is shit, you probably are too. Those are the rules. Susan made them, take it out on her. You’re alone, you piece of shit. Be sad about it.
Stage 2 — Anger:
You decide to ask your friend their opinion on a class they’ve had, and out of left field it becomes a think piece on how incapable of taking it you are. They lament on their intelligence while you contemplate terminating this friendship entirely mid-grey text bubble. This “friend” may or may not be someone you turned down dinner with twice just last week.
Stage 3 — Bargaining:
Permission numbers are the numerical “fuck you” to other students who want in on that coveted W class. Suddenly, it’s a day before your pick time and the class is filled up or reserved for ass kissing, holier than thou Honors students, and you have to butter up a grandfather clock professor for those sacred digits. Time to send distressing 2 a.m. emails. Now it’s in the hands of an Ivy League educated, tenured professor who ghosts you harder than that boy you met who’s “just really busy for the rest of the month.”
Stage 4 — Depression:
The pipe cleaner professor didn’t respond so you’re shit out of luck to get that class. Your mouth begins to foam and from the depths of the recesses of your brain, you think that you deserve a break. You’ve worked hard right? Showing up to class in Arjona, remembering pants, getting the spot where your name goes on a Blue Book right.
You’ve transcended reality and nothing hurts. While blasting 2000’s hits and gulping down Barefoot white girl wine, you contemplate a “fun” class to replace the one you desperately needed. Scrolling through all these courses you see those old classes again, remembering the trauma they caused you. Flashbacks to ‘Nam race through your head. Welp. Looks like Italian Cinema or bust.
Stage 5 — Acceptance:
Reality rears its fucking head once more. None of these classes make sense and you need more help than you do trying to suck anything out of the new straws. Cue day drinking à la Rick Sanchez. There’s no use trying to run, just embrace that it only gets worse here on out. Screw protocol and show up at your advisor’s office hours without an appointment to cry and beg a little. Stare into the frosted glass section of their office door, place one hand on it, and wait. Days pass and still, they haven’t showed up.
You lose hope and starfish out on the seal, admitting defeat. Later, UConn maintenance scrapes your body off the ground after a rogue moped takes you out like the worthless piece of shit you know you are.
Aside from room selection and cuffing season, class scheduling is the absolute worst time of the year. If you take anything away from this post let it be that we are all struggling equally. It wasn’t supposed to make you feel better, it’s just the truth.