Sitting in CIS class today, I feverishly worked to finish a spreadsheet "challenge" issued by my teacher -- usually I wouldn't be so pumped to get one done, but the professor said that if anyone finishes before he shows everyone how to do it, they could have Wednesday off. Now, I'm a great student in CIS class; I was exempted from the last exam, in fact, because my homework was just that good. I enjoy the class, but I also enjoy time off.

When I figured it all out with 10 minutes to spare, I wished I'd been within range of a mirror, because I would have shot myself a knowing glance, nodded, and wordlessly affirmed that I was a modern day techno-stud. I beckon the teacher like a celebrity beckons his valet parker, point to the screen, and sit back like I own the classroom. He squints, shakes his head, and promptly destroys me. He eagerly points out mistake after mistake in a volume audible to the entire class -- I furrow my brow and my jaw falls agape.

"I was on the right track, though, right?" I ask, hoping for a consolation prize. He denies me, making an uncertain noise from the back of his throat and giving a "so-so" gesture with his hands. Thanks, 'teach. Five minutes later he goes over to the table of a girl at another desk, because she thought she'd finished too. He nods, going on to talk about how well she did. She didn't get 100% and therefore didn't score the time off, but damned if her evaluation wasn't a whole lot better than mine.

This blog post is for you, woman. I don't know your name, I don't know who taught you how to be so good at spreadsheets, but I loathe and lust for you. I fear, hate, respect, and love you. I acknowledge you as a superior and I hope one day to share a bed with you so that you might impart some of your innate technological talent unto me in our glorious, passionate union. I DESPISE you.