One Down...

HUNDREDS TO GO!

But that's not what you came here for. You want something to hate.
You need something to hate. Don't worry.
Hate with me a moment, will you?

Last class of a long day spent rushing and finding and listening. The professor is a younger man who demands to be referred to by his first name.
This is mostly because he has no titles.
Fucking graduate students, am I right!?
His mistakes:
"I made you guys buy this cheap little textbook because the bigger expensive ones are a waste and most of the information will go over your heads."
Wat? At least he's saving us money, right?

"Most of you write in the same voice. Sure, there are some talented writers out there, but if it isn't written in that voice I will assume you plagiarized. It's safer that way."
WAT.

"What happens when you are listening to a conversation and you jump in the middle and can't understand anything?" Awkward pause.
What the fuck is he talking about.
"You tune it out!"
False.
"That's why you have to read your assigned chapters; that way, when I'm up here lecturing (which I have made clear is all I intend to do), or having a conversation with you, then you won't tune me out!"
Wat? It was more than a lousy metaphor, it...never mind, I'm going to pretend to take notes. Maybe he won't notice the act even though I'm sitting in the front row.

Two minutes remain in class and, having not covered the entirety of a syllabus he refers to as "all you need to pass my class," the man is speed-rambling. Bullet-points are falling faster on dead ears than ever I have witnessed. I, attentive, await the rage to come. I sense it boiling inside me.
Something dumb is about to happen.
"Hold it, everyone. I asked you to stop packing up earlier. I'm not finished. Note in your syllabus that I was about to hit the part where you cannot leave early and being late for work is not an excuse."
This man is actively making me late for work.
"Do you all want to be marked absent for the first day of class?"
When he stops talking it is two minutes over our allotted class period.
I am the fury of a thousand raped Native-American orphans at a Thanksgiving dinner attended exclusively by Valley girls. I am the mass of every dying star, ever, converted into pure hate.
I am telling this man, in my head, that although I respect his right to maintain order and refuse to tolerate rudeness, that I am a polite adult. I will not be held after class, for any reason, or treated like a common teenager. I will not be late for work because he cannot manage time.
"Hopefully everyone can stay calm until I dismiss class on Wednesday, then maybe we can leave on time!"

Now I am the world's maddest whale
shaped like a dick.