As I trudged out of Professor Dwayne’s statistics class, I was convinced that my brain had been scraped clean and sautéed on a pan.
He’d spent the entire hour ranting about regression analysis like it was the cure to heartbreak. My notes looked like an alien’s shopping list—numbers and arrows going nowhere. At some point, I’d doodled a tiny cartoon of myself hanging from an x-axis, screaming for mercy.
God, how I hate anything maths related.
I found it very ridiculous that I was still offering maths when I was an English and literature student. Very stupid, in fact.
I adjusted my backpack and pushed through the crowd of students flooding the hallway. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to be, someone to text, some caffeine to inhale. I just wanted to crawl under my blanket and pretend
