On Seemingly Unresourceful Kids Who Ask You for Answers to the Homework via Your Facebook Wall (and food)
Background information: You are a college sophomore and there is a grad student in one of your classes. You are on good terms with the grad student, whom you met in another class last semester. You have previously asked said grad student for answers to various homework assignments via his/her Facebook wall, and were told that not only it wasn’t wise to ask this type of question on Facebook, but you’re also never going to get an answer to your questions.
Situation: You have a homework assignment due Monday, and you can’t find the answer to one of the questions (“What does [foreign language phrase] mean?”). Do you:
a) try to translate it yourself to see where it takes you?
b) plug the sentence into some online translator to see where it takes you?
c) search online forums and the web in general to see what you find?
d) go to your grad student classmate’s Facebook profile and write on his/her wall, asking for the answer?
I don’t know what to do with this kid. I’m not sure how many times I have to write him back telling him that I’m not going to give him the answer, and I honestly don’t understand why he thinks that I would even consider helping him. This isn’t me playing the grad student who thinks she’s better than undergrads here; the professor made it clear, both in class and on the syllabus, that this was meant to be individual work. Schools don’t fuck around with academic integrity. I don’t fuck around with academic integrity. And I don’t care that it’s not like cheating on an exam; I don’t care that asking for the answer to a homework assignment is seemingly harmless. The point is that rules are rules, and this is an assignment that we have to hand in. Furthermore, I am a grad student after all, which means that we are NOT on the same level academically. I’m enrolled in a one-year program with which I am less than happy; you think I’m gonna risk my ass to help you with one little question? You must be outside your mind.
Okay, never mind that he was stupid enough to ask me AGAIN on my Facebook wall, AGAIN. Does he think, does he really think that I am stupid?
His message says that he looked up the phrase online and found nothing, which I had trouble believing because it’s a very common French phrase and, chances are, the translation is everywhere to be found. Open a dictionary. Go to wordreference[dot]com. I’m sure you’re not the first one to wonder what the fuck that phrase means.
So, since I didn’t believe that the answer was nowhere to be found online, I went to WR and searched for it. Two words. Didn’t even use quotation marks. Guess what I found.
Precisely ONE thread about what that exact phrase meant. Guess who started the thread.
Him. Nothing told me explicitly that it was he who asked the question, but the poster’s handle happens to be his name in French (coincidence? keep reading). I logged on so I could see said poster’s history, just to take a look at the threads that he started. Interestingly, one of the threads pertained to an expression that showed up on one of our assignments last semester — and guess when that thread was posted? GASP!!!!! LAST SEMESTER!!!!!!!!!!!
And guess what else I just found? Another thread about something else pertaining to this homework assignment! Started a few days ago!
Ok y’all, that’s just too much. There’s no way this is all coincidental. And it’s not like he started that thread because I didn’t give him the answer — no no no. The thread was started last night, someone provided him with the answer last night, and he wrote on my wall about two hours ago.
My conclusion: he asked me because he wants to confirm the answer he got on the forum.
Ain’t gonna happen. And I hate it when people beat around the fucking bush. It’s always, “Hey, how are you? How’s your weekend? OHBYTHEWAYIWANTTHEANSWERTOTHISQUESTION kthxbye.”
?? Don’t be an asshole.
Action to be taken on my part: None, except write about it. I won’t bother tagging his wall and telling him again that I won’t give him the answer blah blah blah. I’m sure he’ll get the point if he doesn’t hear from me, and, if not, he’ll just ask me why I didn’t answer when he sees me on Monday. And then I’ll tell him.
Or maybe I’ll just look at him and ask, “Are you fucking serious?”
I’m happy to announce that my mom is doing just fine. I headed back to Philadelphia on Thursday afternoon to go to the hospital with her on Friday morning. The additional tests that the doctor wanted to perform were another mammogram and an ultrasound. Everything is fine, it was just a scare (and a waste of our time). But a stitch in time saves nine, right? All things considered, it was a good weekend. It was nice to be home and spend time with her, without having work bugging me the entire time (I had cancelled my DSL in Philly and so didn’t take my laptop with me).
The ride from DC to Philly was pretty smooth; the bus left Chinatown around 4:15pm, and, since it was a Thursday, it wasn’t crowded. I managed to hit Union Station after class to pick up some Neuhaus chocolate. Luckily there was a sale, so getting three boxes didn’t ruin me (one for my mom, one for our neighbor Bev, and one for my aunt and uncle).
On my way down to the Metro, I picked up a generous sample of shea butter hand cream, which made my hands quite slippery for a while.
I watched the sun set and the cotton candy clouds go by. Violet sky. There really isn’t much in this world that can rival the sky — an ever-changing scene, a classic beauty. Calm, serene, light, jolly, dark, lonesome, stormy… Universal, infinite. I love it. When the sun is a glowing orange candy and all you want to do is taste it…
My lotioned hands smelled like cookies. I fell asleep, probably at the same time as the sun, and woke up a bit disoriented.
Kind of like today. It took me a while to remember that today was Saturday. I meant to step outside for just a moment, to breathe some non-apartment air, but it didn’t happen. Instead, I sat here all day doing homework and workwork. At least there’s still food in the fridge.
When I came back from Philly, I saw that the chocolate capuccino spread had been replaced by a jar of crunchy hazelnut chocolate spread. Sounds even tastier than just hazelnut chocolate spread, doesn’t it? Well, it tastes just like a Ferrero Rocher (which used to be called “Ferrero Roche d’Or” in France, by the way). As of my departure on Thursday the 19th, I had consumed about half of the chocolate capuccino spread, which I bought a mere three days earlier. I’m not sure what happened to it, but I’m glad Crunchy Hazelnut Chocolate Spread is here.
On a semi-related note, I bought bananas on Tuesday night — they were being brought out of boxes, nice and green. Today they’re green and yellow, but definitely ripe — too ripe for my taste, actually. I wonder why they’re still green.
Tastes change. I never thought much of tofu until a few months ago, and now I’m crazy about it. Despite what many people say, tofu does have a taste — and don’t ask me what it tastes like, because I’m just gonna tell you that it tastes like tofu. I love the way it absorbs whatever flavor is around it. And it’s so versatile.
I like making a beet-corn-mushroom-tofu salad. Add balsamic vinegar, olive oil, some salt, pepper, and a bit of sugar.
Tonight I made angel hair pasta with garlic and basil tomato sauce, sliced mushrooms, and diced tofu. Mmmm…
I noticed that if I eat a lot for dinner, I get really, REALLY painfully hungry the next day. I wonder why.
Oops, did I just offend someone? Would “dummies” make you feel slightly better, even though they essentially mean the same thing?
Moving on. I meant to write this yesterday, after I got back from the half-assedly shoveled streets of my residential neighborhood.
– After you shovel, you’re supposed to sprinkle SALT on your little piece of concrete so as to prevent the formation of a sheet of ice, should the temperatures drop overnight and freeze the slushy mess left over by bipeds.
– In the same vein, you’re supposed to sprinkle salt AFTER you shovel; what on earth do you suppose a little grain of salt here and there will do in two inches of snow? I’ll tell you what a little grain of salt here and there does in two inches of snow. NOTHING USEFUL. It’ll melt itself a nice little hole of about one inch in diameter AND THAT’S IT.
– And of course if you’re stupid enough to just put the salt and the snow together, I would hope that you’re not dimwitted enough to shovel it all away. Which means that you don’t shovel. BUY A SHOVEL AND GET TO WORK!
Is it icy outside today? Aw, shucks. I hope you enjoy the ice skating arena that you and people like you have inadvertently created! I’ll be working from home in my pajamas if you need me.
You know, I appreciate you standing outside in the bitter cold, working for a cause in which you really believe. What I don’t appreciate, however, is YOU getting all up in my FACE with that stupid binder/clipboard of yours, trying to desseminate all the facts and horrors compiled in your shiny little brochure and gather whatever personal information you need from me.
1. I’m listening to music. Partly because I need to get that song out of my head by listening to it at least 20 times in a row (which never works but hey, I never learn), but mostly to avoid people like you. And you can see that I’m listening to music because my earphones and the wire connecting them to my iPod (product placement WHAT!) are white, thus totally contrasting with my black down jacket that contains many dead birds. Point is, I stuffed my ears with things that emit sound so that I can actually not hear you instead of merely pretending. See that hand in my pocket? It’s turning up the volume. It means get away from me.
2. I’m not looking at you. When did my eyes ever meet yours? Never. I don’t want to look at you because it would somehow be an invitation for you to talk to me, and, in case you haven’t been following, I don’t want you to talk to me. Plus I’m sure you people have some hypnotizing powers, because I always see someone stuck in your invisible tentacles with a pen in hand, scribbling stuff on your binder/clipboard.
3. Not only am I not looking at you, but I’m also frowning. At you. Indirectly. In any case, it’s a meanie face. Don’t come near me.
4. I’m walking uber fast. Am I in a hurry or am I just trying to get away from you? Next time you see me, ask yourself that question. Actually, don’t bother; it’s either one or the other, so either way I can’t and/or don’t want to talk to you.
And despite all this, some of you folks just never learn! Do you do that at bars and parties, too? Jesus jumping up and down…
I don’t care about babies/pandas/polar bears (I actually happen to hate polar bears) enough to stand out there and freeze my ass off in the cold with you. That’s YOUR job; I’ve got mine to do. And, for your information, people who really care don’t wait to be asked on the street by some nagging stranger before giving money; they seek out charitable organizations on their own. Like I do. From the comfort of my home, where it’s rarely below freezing… because, you know, when you ask me to save polar bears in the bitter cold, all I can think of is how nice it would be to have their fur wrapped around me at that very moment.
Look at you, so posh with your glass of white wine accompanying your brunch; so clean because you’re wiping your fingers and your lips after every bite. It’s too bad you practically destroyed your food. Here are a couple of tips I would like to share with you:
1. You do not put the fried egg IN your croque-madame. It was served to you a certain way for a reason.
2. You do not eat said croque-madame with your hands.
I totally dig the look you gave me, though–that heavily condescending glance that asked me what the fuck I was looking at, all the while doubting that I even knew how to pronounce anything written on the menu.
But remember, you’re at a French restaurant; it’s only sloppy because you’re stupid.
Let’s get a few things straight:
When French people laugh, it does not sound like, “Hon hon hon hon hon!” Yes, we eat frogs. Yes, we eat snails. And you know that cute pet bunny you had as a kid? A French person probably ate it. And it was most likely delicious.
Yes, I’m Chinese. But why you think I absolutely must speak your obscure dialect of not-even-Cantonese I have no idea. Stop talking to me! I have no idea what you’re saying!
I’m not an animal; I won’t respond to your whistling or that annoying clicky sound you make. “Yes, I’m Asian. No, I will not love you long time.”
You can’t speak sign language. Sorry.
“So, how many languages do you speak?” is not an appropriate follow-up question to “I studied linguistics.”
And I don’t walk fast; your ass is just slow.
I was reading some blog and came across a comment that asked something stupid like, “Who is Marie Trintignant?”
Why stupid? No, Marie Trintignant isn’t a household name, nor is she a historically significant person. As a matter of fact, unless you’re French, or a French cinema aficionado, there’s no reason why the name “Trintignant” should ring a bell at all.
But since the context makes it clear that she is (was) a celebrity, and assuming that you’re on the Web at the moment you’re writing that comment (I know it sounds a bit far-fetched but bear with me), why don’t you just LOOK IT UP?
The Internet wasn’t called “the information superhighway” for nothing, after all. So, unless you’re at work, or on a public computer, and you want to find out what bukkake is, I suggest you use it.
“it” being the Internet; not bukkake.
And, in anticipation of any smart-ass comments, I offer you the following links:
ps: Yes, I know the difference between the Internet and the Web, so hold your comments on that, too.
Today isn’t over yet but I’ve learned my fair share of lessons. I switched to CIBA’s Night & Day contacts about two months ago, when my eye doctor expressed horror at the idea of me wearing my contacts for over twelve hours a day. For those of you who aren’t familiar, CIBA boasts these lenses’ ability to be worn “for up to 30 nights and days of continuous wear!” And, “That’s right—Stop the never-ending routine of removing and cleaning your contacts (for up to a month).” Outrageous? I KNOW! But settle down, these lenses are FDA-approved for such practice.
Now, I’m a curious person. I knew that, you knew that, everybody knew that. I somehow got the idea into my head that I was going to wear the lenses for thirty nights and days. It’s FDA-approved! CIBA says it’s safe! Why the hell not!
So I started wearing the lenses for seven consecutive nights and days. So far so good, I took the lenses out for two days to give my eyes a rest. “I’m so smart,” I thought, “I’m going to give my eyes some time to get used to this.” Next up, twenty one days. I didn’t mean to tag on that additional week, but eh, what the hell. They weren’t bothering me after two weeks, so why touch them? At that point, I had used the lenses for about a month and so I threw them out.
I opened a new pair of lenses on November 5. I decided not to take a break; this turned out to be a big mistake. As of yesterday, everything was fine. As of 7am today, everything was fine. But I woke up again four hours later with an almost-throbbing pain in my left eye. I jolted out of bed and took a look in the mirror to find my left eye watery and bloodshot. I immediately took out my contacts and checked it out again–that’s when I noticed a small white dot on my cornea, above the pupil.
What goes through one’s head upon such a discovery? “Shit, shit, SHIT! Fuck, I knew I should have taken them out this weekend.” And indeed I knew. I knew, but I didn’t do it. My mom even called on Friday, telling me that I had left my contact lens case behind. I spent the next couple of hours online and on the phone, seeking some assistance. I frantically called doctors, health centers, emergency rooms, looking to assess the urgency of the situation at hand. Humans, in typical fashion, were not helpful, but with the help of my trusty computer I read all about corneal ulcers. Scary shit, I tell you.
You see, my problem wasn’t whether or not to seek help. My problem was when to seek help. I have a doctor’s appointment at one of the health centers in the city on Wednesday morning; the same health center only accepts walk-ins at 7:30am daily. My two free options were to wait until 7:30am tomorrow, or go to my appointment at 8:15am on Wednesday. Another option–the one that made the most sense–was to see a private eye doctor. “It’s gonna be at least $140.” Fine. It’s my eye, I’m scared, I don’t want to wait. I made the call at 1pm; my appointment was for 1:30pm. SCORE.
A corneal ulcer. Just as I suspected. “It’s a tiny little one,” he said. “I’m going to give you some drops and in a few days, a week at most, you’ll be as good as new.”
The visit cost me $75. Here’s the kicker: “This is why we tell our patients to not sleep with their lenses on.” Yes doctor, thank you doctor, goodbye doctor.
It’s FDA-approved! CIBA says it’s safe! If they told me to jump off a cliff I’d probably do it!
These drops cost some serious money, too. Almost $50 for a 5ml bottle. Fucking shoot me. In the eye.
Lessons learned? Many.
First, not everything that’s FDA-approved and certified safe IS safe all the time. There is a way to hurt yourself and/or others with EVERYTHING.
Second, if it sounds like a bad idea, it probably is. Especially if you don’t have health insurance.
Third, listen to your doctor. It may be your body, but they do know better.
Fourth, if there’s one thing in your body that you don’t want to fuck with, it’s probably your eyes. No matter how small, any problem concerning your eyes should be checked out as soon as possible.
The most that anyone has ever told me about lens wear-related problems was something about corneal neovascularization. -5 for me, for not having looked into this further.
I let my curiosity get in the way of thinking things through clearly–I guess being a moron didn’t help, either. -20 for being a dumb ass.
It’s FDA-approved! CIBA says it’s safe! What’s the worst that could happen! -100; a mild case of the worst did happen.
Finally, -57,929 zillions for experimenting with my eyes.