October 4, 2002

    Thursday was a massive disappointment.  My only obligation was the deadline for the school paper.  From noon to eleven p.m., I worked with the others as they came and went.  We laid out articles, edited them, searched for pictures, transferred files between the PCs we are comfortable with and the Macs we are required to use, and were not discouraged by a class being conducted in the same room.  Nikki had a Photoshop class to teach at six o'clock, but we were not told about it.  Perhaps the administrators think it's funny to keep the Communications students from necessary information.  Shauna (Professor Carty is just too long to type ... and say) asked nicely if we could use any remaining computers to quietly lay out the pages while the class was in session.  Room N-37 is the only Macintosh lab in the school and, apparently, the only equipped with both Photoshop and Quark Express.  

    Nikki agreed and tolerated our frenetic rushing about in search of unspecified files on unlabeled Zip disks.  There were only four computers left over, and there were six of us, so we took turns working on stories as the others edited copy or enjoyed the break.  Even though it is only a little college newspaper, I have already learned much about the nature of the business, and how utterly crazy it is.  Articles and pictures get cut at the last minute, disorganization costs hours, some changes aren't worth making when other issues nab priority, and the administrators and faculty don't really give a fuck.

    Reasoning with a Macintosh with a round-mouse is also time-consuming, but we have no choice.  Seeing the finished product is worth the stress and anxiety-at least it would have been.

    Some nerdy techie guy kicked us out of the lab as eleven p.m. drew near, because he needed to go home and jerk off to the Discovery Channel.  The ultimate conflict is when someone else's job conflicts with your own.  No one ends up entirely happy.  Shauna, Donna, Ron, Charlie, Mike, and myself were the furthest thing from it.  Shauna was so upset she shook while typing an e-mail to the college President, Dean of Students, heads of the English and Communications department, and remaining Scroll staff.  No one is paying us to stay work on the paper until one a.m. (actually, we pay to take it as a class), but we were prepared to.  Everything was laid out, and there were only two hours of corrections and preprinting organizational task to be done.  Apparently, the paper is not worth it.  

    We did not meet our deadline, and our Special Founders' Day Edition will not be out in time for Founders' Day.  We printed the paper as it was, near-completion, and put it in the mailboxes of those who should care.

    The clock said 11:22 when I walked in last night.  My dad was eight minutes from sending a search party, and I was in tears.  The material was there, and all the articles well-written.  A circumstantial imbroglio and the constraints of time crashed down on all of us. Instead of covering our heads, we know we cannot count on anyone who has not spent over ten hours making a newspaper to understand.

    I went to bed later than I should have, with too much to think about, and an Open House at Bard College scheduled for today.  Since it began at eight-thirty, we needed to leave at six this morning.  In other words, I needed to get up at five.  I got home too late to take anything to help me sleep and was restless, waking up two or three time during the three and a half hours I slept.  

    Adam called at twelve-thirty, wanting to talk to my Mom.  She's usually up at that time, reading the previous day's newspaper, or doing whatever seeing fifty patients a week will not allow her.  This time, she was in bed.  Adam talked to me instead, wishing me all the luck in the world.  See, this Bard thing is more than just an Open House.  It is called the Immediate Decision Plan, through which completed applications are received and reviewed prior to the day.  The day itself includes interviews, campus tours, sample classes, and finally, the decision of the Admissions Committee.  Kids find out whether or not they get in the same day.

    The others were all high school seniors.  Bard gets few transfers.  I was not a great mood, running on approximately two hundred and ten minutes of shuteye.  In fact, I did not want to be there, and sit through their earnest promotion of their undervalued Science program.  The first sample class was interesting: Computer Hacking 101.  Only at Bard would a Professor show you how to locate holes in networks and hack right through them.  

    After that, I had half a sandwich and felt sick, as I do all too frequently.  My interviewer was friendly, cordial, and utterly confused about my educational background.  Straightening things out would not have expedited the decision process, because a former English teacher was too busy rolling blunts, grading papers, or whatever it is they do to have completed the recommendation form in a timely manner.  It is a good thing none of my energy was wasted on the anticipation of a decision I would not receive.

    She also inquired about a high school transcript.  I shot myself in the foot.  Apparently, their policy requires the high school transcript if the wannabe-transfer has less than two years of college.  I explained mine contains mostly Incompletes and Passes, and why the faculty did it to shunt accountability.  All I have to do now is summarize my unusual high school experience, and fax a copy of my GED.  

    Knowing whether or not Bard accepted me would have been nice, but it seemed too easy.  Why would we have hike up there at sunrise and back through rush hour if we expected it to yield something important? Both of my parents came along, and from what I could infer, the drove around all day, and looked at the pretty mountains.  I slept for an hour on the way back, sat up sharply, and asked if nausea is a symptom of dehydration.  Both parents affirmed my supposition, and offered a partial explanation of why I have been feeling so crappy lately.  A body drowning in eighty to one hundred twenty-eight ounces of water a day through the summer is reacting to taking in about thirty.  Doing inventory at work and being hopelessly confused by a Calculus class about rabbits did not help, either.  

    Exhaustion and dehydration will have beautiful children.