To My Evil, Heartless Science Professor

I can’t even look into your eyes as I write this.

I can’t even call you up and scream at you talk sternly with you because: (a) due to the boundaries of the professor-student relationship, I do not have your landline or cell phone number, and (b) my mouth is currently filled with two (or three?) cubes of havarti and half of a Goya soda cracker. Because if I’m not at Happy Hour, I’m eating my pain.

I am writing this letter in reference to the final exam you wrote and proctored yesterday. I am now thoroughly convinced that you do not have a soul. I mean, what kind of sick Elektra-complex does someone need to have to schedule a three-hour exam on a Sunday? On Mother’s Day, at that. On God’s day.

Shame. In the name of Jesus and all that is Holy-with-a-capital-H, I say, Shame.

How do you sleep at night? Just the thought of being stuck in a lecture hall writing in a tiny, blue book for three hours gave me nightmares. In one nightmare, Elena Kagan and I went to Kirstie Alley’s house to play Wii Fit. I was preparing a little jog-in-place, a little hip-action for the hula hoop game, a little wrist-swinging action for the avatar bowling marathon. Just me, two BBW’s, and a Wii system. You would think it would be a dream, BUT NO!

Elena stepped on the pad to weigh-in and the magical computer lady said: Next Supreme Court Justice! (Nightmare.) Kirstie stepped on the pad to weigh-in and the magical computer lady said: Level Nine Thetan Goddess! (Nightmare.) But when I stepped on the pad to weigh-in, the magical computer bitch lady said: Obese! (Whatthefuckishappeningrightnow…nightmare.)

And then I woke up.

Me? Obese? A computer with no soul or brain or eyes or whatever just called me fucking obese?! Okay, you’re a science professor, so tell me, since when were computerized voices so judgmental? And for the record, I am not obese. I am nowhere even close to obese. And this is not denial speaking, it’s truth. It’s the rock hard facts speaking, and that’s what science is all about, right? The facts.

But I don’t like facts, professor. I don’t eat facts for breakfast. Or lunch, or dinner, or whatever. I prefer to just go where my heart leads me, to make decisions and hone in my reasoning skills with my emotions. For example, I don’t care if you tell me with your little Ph.D. in whatever that unicorns don’t exist. Because in my world, they do. I have never seen one, but I just know. Somewhere out there—maybe on a small, deserted island—there are unicorns living in peace under bright and shining rainbows. And I believe that the a unicorn’s tears can cure glaucoma. So there. You see, I can’t prove to you that unicorns do exist, but you can’t prove to me that they don’t. So take your scientific method that’s filled with deceit and lies, and suck it.

I’ve always had beef with science. It’s no new phenomenon. And thanks to Murphy’s Law, I’ve always been blessed with the worst science teachers in the universe. Like Doctor-fucking-Shapiro.

That lady was nuts. She was all kinds of crazy. Like the kind of crazy that attracts cats—except I don’t think she had cats. She was more of a monkey woman; she taught Biological Anthropology and went gaga for the bonobos. Her class was called The Human Species: Our Place In Nature. Yeah, I-know-right, with a cute little name like that—our place in nature!—it sounds like all fun and games. No.

She would waddle into class every morning at 9 a.m. with so much happy, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. She had tangled red hair and a hooked nose that was kind of endearing. She had carpal tunnel in both hands and wore a soft cast. She wore a muumuu everyday and gasped whenever she was excited, which was a lot. If we were lucky, she would put her hair up in a scrunchie or a big-ass hair clip and I would turn to my neighbor and say, Gosh, how lucky are we. She’s doing the sexy hair thing for us today. Maybe tomorrow, she’ll actually comb it for once.

Dr. Shapiro gave out her cell phone number to a lecture of 80+ students and invited people over for Goldfish-snacking and study time. I never went. For obvious reasons. I just imagined her sitting there in her muumuu singing Kumbaya while eating cat food out of the container.

She was one of the most freakishly nice people in the world. She was the kind of person who would respond to How-Are-You-Doing with something other than Great. She was the kind of person who would say, I’ve just made the switch to soy and I’ve never felt better in my life. She was the kind of person who made special hand-outs for me when she discovered my left-handedness. (All she did was put the staple on the top-right side of the paper. It’s all about the small things.) She was just so nice. Until her final exam.

I don’t remember much of that exam; I try to block out the trauma. But I do remember her announcing that no one would be able to leave until the exam was over. About ten minutes later, while I was busy trying to decide if I felt like I needed to pass out or vomit all over myself, we had a (WO)MAN DOWN situation. A girl got out of her seat and bolted for the door, where she was promptly greeted by two frail teaching assistants who did nothing but stand in front of the door like Gestapo officers with crossed arms. Their stern faces silently said: You no leave. You take exam now. We don’t care if you need to pee, you no leave.

By the end, I think a grand total of four people handed in their papers in tears. This is the kind of damage that science does to young minds. IT DESTROYS!

Dr. Shapiro’s class was about evolution and I’m no longer a believer. I will never look at my opposable thumb in the same light. I will never look at a skull without thinking, Wow, that is quite an occipital torus. Must be from Indonesia cerca 12,000 years ago. No, I will not.

But, like I said, I don’t like facts. They bog me down. I’d rather subscribe to the Liberty University train of quasi-biological thought, where the world was created in Genesis and God took a vacation on the seventh day. Who needs to believe in evolutionary science or natural selection when you can just believe in Adam and Eve? It’s so much more simple and convenient.

And don’t get me started on Global Warming. You know, last time I checked, it’s still really cold in December. I love the snow. Maybe if I just believe it’s not happening, it won’t.

I won’t even open that can of dissected worms because all of you science people are the same. You all have beards—even the ladies (you just wax them off!)—and Santa Claus bellies, and you all spit when you talk. You all love facts, and correlation curves, and statistics, and blah-blah-blah, just gag me already.

You must enjoy seeing people suffer because if you didn’t, there would be no such thing as an undergraduate science requirement. Clearly for science and engineer majors, there is no writing or grammar requirement because your exam sheet was littered with the most disgusting grammar I’ve ever see in my life. You may be a geophysicist with tons of post-bacc. degrees, but you don’t know the difference between affect and effect. You don’t know that listed series of numbers are separated by semi-colons instead of commas. And one of you wrote that the plural of mouse is mouses. C’mon, really?

Your questions—no matter how poorly worded—on the final exam were ridiculous. If the ice caps are melting—which they totally aren’t—at a rate of whatever, and the ocean levels rise at a rate of whatever, why do you want me to calculate what the change in tide will be in millimeters over the course of the next 100 years? Look, I’m basically retarded when it comes to unit conversions. That question was so not fair. I prefer speaking the language of generalities: a lot, a little, some, kinda, maybe, just a touch, a dab, a sprinkle. The more vague the better—leaves more room for possibility.

And you marked me off on the neuroscience question! What neurological disorder would hinder a person’s ability to smell? Dude, I know you were looking for some kind of protein receptor response about the olfactory system, but I think my answer was so much better. I said: If a person is dead, they won’t be able to smell.

Tell me how that is wrong! I think maybe you should be more specific next time you decide to schedule a science exam on a Sunday. Because God hates science. And so do I.

(Plus, dead people totally can’t smell. Points for a creative response?)

Love,

Science Hater 4 Lyfe

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