I WAS SITTING IN MY INTRO TO MASS COMM CLASS TODAY, minding my own business and naturally, attempting to learn a thing or two about book publication and censorship.
To my left was the exit, ever-so-tempting yet, I like learning about media history. I find acquiring a knowledge of these types of origins strangely fascinating, and tuned in to the instructor’s discourse.
To my right sat none other than SweetPea McGee. No, that isn’t literally her name, but it very well could have been. SweetPea was your quintessential Mass Comm major, the kind that roam in a pack of girls wearing fur coats and sleep with their flatiron. The majority of these pleasant young women have a minor in Baby-Mama Drama and apply lipgloss religiously. You may find them going to the restroom in pairs (to talk about boys) and their weekends are consumed by late nights and early mornings of beer pong, followed by a hung-over Sunday afternoon workout session (the price paid for two consecutive nights of getting “fuggggged uuup”). SweetPea may or may not have met the majority, if not all of this criteria, respectively. I will have you know that these are not pre-judgments, but rather a gathered opinion from SweetPea’s actions. Today she decided to push my buttons.
In the midst of learning about the wonders of the media, I was disrupted by a hasty and familiar clicking. To my horror I glanced over at SweetPea, who was hunkered down in her chair and attempting to conceal her SuperMegaGinormousTextPhone 9000 beneath the desktop. She was texting at a Nascar pace –– nay –– make that lightspeed, and completely tuned out all lecture material and notes presented by the instructor.
I am not one to have a cow, pig, baby, etc. about situations like this, but this instance is an exception. In light that I have given up cursing as part of the bible that is my New Year’s Resolutions, I will rephrase my reaction to this situation: WTF. Seriously. WTF.
I’ll be the first to admit that I, too, have texted during class, but no more than an, “I’m in class right now, I’ll call you later” type of deal. This SweetPea was literally typing volumes upon doctoral thesises upon entire J.K Rowling’s series worth of text and who-knows-what. As my anger escalated I couldn’t help but wonder, what on earth was she texting? “Thirsty Thursday tonight, you going to [so-and-so’s] [scummyhouseablockawayfromcampus] to [drinkuntilwepassoutand/orfindsomeonetotakeustotacobell]?”*
*Slightly paraphrased exaggerations that are possibly not exaggerated at all.
Whatever it was, it was rude, disrespectful, and ridiculous. Not only that, after a while she gave up hiding SuperGinormousMegaTextPhone 9000 beneath her desk and just straight up set it on the tabletop, then proceeded to “flip” it open (an acclaimed feature of the SuperTextPhone 9000 series) as if it were a mini computer and go to town once more.
[Insert SweetPea here, with a single finger in superspeed motion, typing up another super-epic text].
I was obviously agitated by this time and pondered wether or not to confront the situation. After nearly an hour of attempting to scrape together a semi-polite phrase (“Hey, SweetPea, do ya mind? I’m tryn’na learn here”), I decided to altogether let it slide and sit a little closer to the front next time with the overachievers and teacher’s pets. At least then I could focus on 75 minutes of debating if Harry Potter should be banned from schools.
And I won’t even bust out the “I’m paying to learn, not to watch you text” line.
Eeeey yey yey.
[Ranting subsides as I quietly step down from my carping pedestal, only to hover into the nearest corner and proceed to live my passive-agressive life].
Muchlove to all —