I Am A Retarded Monkey Child

It's sad really. They say that math yields to brute force, but I'm here to tell you that just isn't true. I used enough math studying brute force to move a freaking planet in preparing for this test, but it just wasn't enough. The look on my professor's face was heartbreaking, that hopeful smile, as I handed in my intellectually fetid exam paper. I imagine him taking the tests home, working through the pile over the weekend, maybe at his kitchen table, coming to mine, and remembering how I went to talk to him, and the useless, well-meaning advice he gave me, and looking at my answers. And crying. I don't think he'll actually cry, but he's someone that loves stats so much he'll at least me offended at my presumptuousness to try to be a psychologist when by all rights I should be selling burgers and not wasting a spot at Geneseo or office of admission at Smith's time. I had thought I would feel better after the test was over, but I just want to run away from home.