A Letter to Students
Dear first-year students plaguing my bookstore,
STFU already.
I've had the good fortune of only working two days so far this new semester, but I still have a forty-hour work week. I know classes have just started, and you're exhausted and inattentive already. (Believe me, I was there once.) But allow me to give you a brief lesson that will make things a lot easier for you.
1. The first price I state for a book is the price you have to pay. Being indignant or pissed off at me personally will not change that. I did not choose your whiny tendencies, but you don't see me scowling at you for that.
2. When I tell you there are no used copies of a book, I am telling the truth. I promise you, we do not have all the used copies sequestered in a dank basement. We are not torturing them with fire and mold; we are not forcing them to give us the answers to life's persistent questions before we set them free. The used copies have already been taken home by loving families of one, who got the used copies as a reward for coming early. I promise you, I'm not lying: there are really and truly no used copies left.
3. Yes, I can easily tell which of you are using your parents' money for everything. The big tip-off is when you purposely buy the more expensive book. Unless all the used copies have dog pee on them, you should be going for the cheaper copies anyway. I shudder to think of you paying for your own anything.
4. When I tell you a book hasn't come in at all yet, that means your classmates don't have it either. I highly doubt your professor wants all of you to read something that no one has for tomorrow. That would be like expecting everyone to come to class with a brand-new, spontaneously sprouted limb. With its own brain.
5. The next time someone says, "Wait, what?" after I state my little spiel for PSY 139 (slowly and clearly, I might add), I'm just going to walk away. And then probably get fired. Then I'll decide I can live on my writing, no one will publish me, I'll start writing for Tea Party cronies, and I will end up at the bottom of a brandy bottle every night. Dear, dear students: please don't make me become a wino. It just doesn't sound fun.
6. This one's a bit more beyond your individual control, but if you could manage to not come in droves of fifty students at once, that would be great. I prefer not to use my cattle prod.
Study these lessons well, and maybe one day you'll reach the next level of idiocy: sophomore.
Sincerely,
Your guide on the scholarly path,
Allison
STFU already.
I've had the good fortune of only working two days so far this new semester, but I still have a forty-hour work week. I know classes have just started, and you're exhausted and inattentive already. (Believe me, I was there once.) But allow me to give you a brief lesson that will make things a lot easier for you.
1. The first price I state for a book is the price you have to pay. Being indignant or pissed off at me personally will not change that. I did not choose your whiny tendencies, but you don't see me scowling at you for that.
2. When I tell you there are no used copies of a book, I am telling the truth. I promise you, we do not have all the used copies sequestered in a dank basement. We are not torturing them with fire and mold; we are not forcing them to give us the answers to life's persistent questions before we set them free. The used copies have already been taken home by loving families of one, who got the used copies as a reward for coming early. I promise you, I'm not lying: there are really and truly no used copies left.
3. Yes, I can easily tell which of you are using your parents' money for everything. The big tip-off is when you purposely buy the more expensive book. Unless all the used copies have dog pee on them, you should be going for the cheaper copies anyway. I shudder to think of you paying for your own anything.
4. When I tell you a book hasn't come in at all yet, that means your classmates don't have it either. I highly doubt your professor wants all of you to read something that no one has for tomorrow. That would be like expecting everyone to come to class with a brand-new, spontaneously sprouted limb. With its own brain.
5. The next time someone says, "Wait, what?" after I state my little spiel for PSY 139 (slowly and clearly, I might add), I'm just going to walk away. And then probably get fired. Then I'll decide I can live on my writing, no one will publish me, I'll start writing for Tea Party cronies, and I will end up at the bottom of a brandy bottle every night. Dear, dear students: please don't make me become a wino. It just doesn't sound fun.
6. This one's a bit more beyond your individual control, but if you could manage to not come in droves of fifty students at once, that would be great. I prefer not to use my cattle prod.
Study these lessons well, and maybe one day you'll reach the next level of idiocy: sophomore.
Sincerely,
Your guide on the scholarly path,
Allison
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