Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the travel account. I’ll finish it over the weekend or something, and in return I will make this one concise.

The people of orientation were very friendly and thoughtful, almost to a Japan level of thoughtfulness and convenience. Even the food service people were competent in their jobs, in contrast to my horrible experience with lunch ladies in high school, where they just yell at you something and you don’t quite know what they said, but you say “Yes” anyway.

But when it was time to register, I thought it was going to be all right. I had planned to make a script to register all of my classes the moment that the registration opened, but I didn’t think the interface would prevent you from even getting to that menu before it was time, so I was unable to capture the HTTP requests for replaying. The infrastructure held together at the last moment from all of that incessant refreshing for the opening, but a few seconds before, the gates of hell opened once more to my mortal eyes. The servers slowed to a grinding halt during the redirects.

Once I confirmed my email and clicked a tiny little checkbox, I was then able to access the registration page, in which I entered the five-digit “nuclear codes” which I had determined after many hours of advising. Some of them gave me red error text; I read it quickly and moved on to the next numbers.

The casualties were my first-year “signature” course, which filled up 100% within 120 seconds of registration opening, and second-semester Japanese, which was on waitlist, but I was not allowed to enter the waitlist because prerequisites were being enforced.

I thought “quick, let me register for Government” which is another class I’ll eventually have to take, but alas, the ones available conflict with my schedule.

I wish I could just leave and admit defeat, but I couldn’t because I was missing three credit hours to deem me a full-time student. I kept browsing around, finding ways to prove to myself that every single course was full. When everyone was gone from the room, one of the advisors told me some course numbers that had not been taken yet that could be used to fulfill a requirement, and then drop once I could take Japanese. I don’t even think I’ll be able to take Japanese this semester, to be honest. It’s waitlisted, and sticking to a crappy class and crappy dorm seem to be the status quo.

During the day, I felt all right, but at night I kind of realized how antisocial I am, and how there are simply an excess number of people for me to ever correct that without professional help. I thus considered professional help, but sadly didn’t think that there would be any time for me to make any sort of consultation with anyone. I also didn’t know if they would notify my parents. I don’t want my parents to be notified. I already told you: because that makes the whole family in need of professional help, and then we all get thrown into group therapy, which sucks. And then to make me guilty, my parents will repeatedly suggest me to see a “spiritual director” which does not solve problems caused by chemical imbalances and is still unable to make a diagnosis. If I think I have anxiety, which I do, and need a beta blocker or something, well a spiritual director is probably going to tell me “it’s just some bad things and you just pray and meditate and relax and it’ll go away.” Really? It will go away? I am not criticizing the spiritual director’s job; they help people who just need to talk to someone about life problems; I am criticizing my parents who think that a spiritual director is just a throw-in, cheapo equivalent to a psychologist. After ranting for almost two years now, with the tendency of subordinating myself toward others and practically asking for the bottom of the barrel since I was twelve or so, is this really a temporary problem? But somehow, I have to explain to them this, but I don’t even know how.

It’s college and everything is supposed to change, but really I’m just whining at a higher level, and still not getting what I’m paying a good sum of money for.


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