A short lesson on the right way to take notes

For a two-hour class, one would think that I would be doing a hefty amount of note-taking. The only actual notes for this particular class revolve around the essays that we recently had to turn in.

"Keep in mind," I wrote (and circled). I also made bullet points for things to remember when writing the next essay in the class.

• Title
• Historical present tense - ask yourself "so what?"
• Beware of generalizations

And that's it. The rest of the page was dedicated to whatever my mind could come up during that span of time (2-4 pm, Mondays and Wednesdays).

Here is a sample page of those "notes," taken on September 26th, 2007:

- I made up a new name for a character that I thought was funny: Dr. Chadwick Breasticus.

- I tried drawing some eyes, one being severed and floating through the air with a small trail of blood behind it.

- I drew the face of some man with Elvis sideburns, his chin and face starting to melt away for reasons unknown to me. He looks down and screams, "My FACE!!"

- A character drawn up to the chin is completely naked with a small censor covering his private parts. A *POOF* is coming out of his butt, along with little lines to indicate a vicious fart. In fact, it is so vicious that I draw someone's head literally being torn off by the force of the flatulence.

I really do learn a lot in the class - many valuable lessons that will help me grow as an adult and become a stronger intellectual. If Dr. Chadwick Breasticus and vicious, decapitating farts won't help me in the real world, then I don't know what will.

What I do in class (rather than paying attention)

Tick…tick……tick………each passing second longer than the previous. Miserable, distant faces and half-shut eyes think of what might be going on beyond these walls during these two hours – the fun that could be had, the much-needed sleep. This is a brutal test of stamina, a chance to experience misery. Stephen Crane would be proud. A look around the room and it’s like a wax museum of college students; bodies that appear so life-like with nothing going on inside. Just a hollow existence. I pay thousands for this.

If Death were to interrupt the droning and request my presence, there is no way I could jump faster out of my seat.

“Take me with you, please!” I would say, on my knees, clutching to Death’s black robe. A cool wave of satisfaction would sweep over me as an eternally important hand reaches my shoulder, ending my existence.

“Turn to page 1050.”

Each one of us turns the thin slice of paper, not so we can read along or figure out some vague sense of meaning. We turn it to make sure we are still alive, still present in this boredom, only wishing a jolt of anything would wake us up in the comforts of something inviting, which at this point could be a bed of rusted nails.

If I am correct in my assumptions, and this truly is Hell in its highest form - I repent! I repent!