In fact, having brooded even longer over my academic record and my plan, it occurs to me that the loss of the class I so mourned in my previous entry might actually be a good thing. It's true, this class would have knocked out two stones at once amongst my requirements, and it's also suggested that I should take it if I want to go to grad school, which I do. But in the end -- eh, it's only a suggestion. Whereas, there's another class that's suggested, and would also knock out both those requirements. Granted, this would be one of the classes I hari-kari'd in last semester, but I'm gonna have to take it again eventually, regardless.

My solution for this semester? I just went ahead and registered again for the other class I bombed at last semester. This being only a 4 credit class, it does in fact still leave me as not-quite-full-time. I do know that as far as my grants and my veterans benefits, this will make some kind of difference -- you know, as in less-money-for-me kind of difference. Exactly how bad the damage is I sadly cannot estimate, but really I figure how bad can it be? Sure, my "official" qualification has changed, but come on -- it's one freaking credit, people! Really, if it's gonna make that big a difference, I suppose I'll just have to find more gainful employment than I currently enjoy.

Speaking of which, something really occurs to me about my present profession. Two nights ago, I was working the door and ended up chatting with a woman as she waited for her taxi to arrive. She was leaving the service industry after many years, she said because the industry had drained her -- she no longer wanted to watch the slow deterioration of those she worked with, which she attributed to too much alcohol. She said she had seen too many young, bright, promising people simply sink into a sort of bitter boozy haze.

And it's true, as far as I know: Compartive to the standard population, a great many of the service industry types tend to party quite hard. (Though, as far as that goes, the same is true for the military.) Tonight, it occurred to me that this little detail can easily enough be explained away by the particular stressors of the occupation. (Which we can also say for the military, though the stressors are different, obviously.)

'Cuz you know what? When I asked you to climb off the furniture and you thought being a smartass about it was cute? I was a smartass back, but I would rather have fucking strangled you. When I let you hang out for a few more minutes when I should have just shooed you on away? I was being nice, dickhead. Under the circumstances, it's something you should really appreciate. From every drunk who's puking somewhere, every asshole grabbing girls' asses on the dancefloor, every broken glass or bottle that needs to be gathered before someone gets hurt, every fight about to break out, every favor the boss or his asshole friends are asking for -- when I finally come back and say your time is up? Your two buddies who take 60 second to move are already pissing me off. You sitting calmly text messaging someone? You have no idea how easily I could punch your head right through that plate glass window behind you.

When I finally tell you I have other things to do, and I have to clear this area, and I unfortunately can't wait for you to write a fucking novel on your cell phone? (Clue: You can do that anywhere asshole!) You decide you want to say, "There's a difference between doing your job and being an asshole."

Guess what, fuckhead. Heard you the first time. I didn't respond that time because if I did, it would be with a fucking fist. So okay, I grant you my most insincere apology possible as I usher your lame ass out the door.

But I'm tellin' ya, folks. This is why industry folks go home and drink or smoke themselves blind. It's so they can show up smiling the next day for a whole new crowd of shitheads.

By the by? It's been freaking months. Just a little pot would be nice.