infuriatedIn soccer we participated in the semi-finals, but we lost our match against Bretonne. I was the unofficial goalkeeper for the first few minutes, but Moussa – nicest guy you’d ever want to meet – scored two quick goals, and my facilitator relived me, saying, “I’ll go in front of the goal – Moussa is too strong for you.” We later managed to put on a sustained drive and got a goal, but subsequently Moussa scored on the facilitator aforementioned. Another goal came late, and we went down 4-1.
I wasn’t even going to play soccer tonight because I have too many other things to do. Or at least I feel like I do, which is even worse. Somehow, I’ll manage – I always do. It’s just really aggravating when we have loads and loads of responsibilities for our classes and our workshops, and yet the facilitators turn about as one and say, “Amuse yourselves!”
I was so stressed out that I freaked out in class this morning – I was complaining about a particular facilitator and all of a sudden I just snapped. For that moment I was irate because he is going to become a professor, and I often think that he won’t be very good because, although he is talented and intelligent and often very funny, he doesn’t seem to have much regard for the feelings of other people. But then I remembered that criticisms are like homing pigeons and that that same description fits me like a tailored suit! I like to think that I’m not like him, but maybe I am more like him than I’d ever, ever care to think.
He scolds people an awful lot and I wonder if he’s a little bit drunk on his own authority. When he dresses people down (this happens frequently), I merely want to be somewhere else. When he dresses me down, I want to throw my belongings in his face, donate a few choice English oaths, hop in my car and get the fuck out of here. I’ve already decided that I’m not going to work directly with him ever again under any circumstances, save perhaps bailing out a lifeboat, and that’s only if my fellow castaways restrain me from pushing him overboard myself. If I come here again (this is still likely, despite my ranting – the rapid improvement in my French and the other life lessons learned here make the suffering worthwhile), and I get him for my professor… well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Odds are I won’t get him, though, and given that I may not even come here again I’m not going to worry about it.
This post will be unscreened after the program.