Battlestar Galactica

I hate my PMAT 315 class.

I frackin hate it. As I was sitting in this night, trying to think of one frakin positive thing about the class. Not a frackin thing.

For frack's sake, it's bad as it is, being a mother-frackin 7-10pm class, but my prof speaks in broken english which is bloody frackin incomprehensible! eg. "Well if you... (pause, waves hands around), then... just take the that and the that, which is which you know?... and... you get blah, and the theorem is proved." <-- No frackin joke, I wrote that down in class, verbatim. And if you think that's bad, the notes on the board aren't any more congruent.

Shtick on a stick, to pile more on this already fracked up plate, there's a fellow who frackin stutters out loud, repeating every frackin thing that's on the chalkboard. Then, there's another arrogant motherfrack of a fob, who disturbs the class by pointing out minor grammatical errors on the board. eg. "of of". Who in the frack cares?! Are you that frackin retarded that your not able to interpret a mistake for a mistake, and record into your notes accordingly?

I'm frustrated as it is with this material, just let the prof speak without interruption so whatever english comes out of her mouth can be comprehended.

Motherfracker.

Ah... but... stepping outside. I have to say, during the sunsets, the campus is beautiful at this time of year. The sky is dark yet still with a shade of blue, and the trees, with a full growth of leaves, are but silhouettes brushing softly with the wind. The breeze, slightly humid, but fresh and unpolluted, flowing gently against every knot on my strained body... Restoring that sense of peace to my angry soul...

And the frackin mosquitoes.