i got this message from my supervisor today:
"How far have you got with the FDTD simulations of the gaussian excitation? When you don't have access to the laser you should be working on these full time. I guess I don't have to paint the picture any clearer than you probably have it already in your mind, but you have to bear down and get some serious research done asap, both for your thesis, and for this project's chances at success (cf the hungry competition)."
to which i'd just love to reply: FUCK OFF.
FUCK the fuck OFF!!
i just spent the last 40 hours putting together our biggest newspaper of the year, and everything kept getting humped near the end. the printer had given us the wrong page numbers on the flats, and they made me send them FOUR revisions. if they (a) had given us the right page numbering in the first place or (b) knew how to give proper instructions of what the flats were SUPPOSED to look like, i wouldn't have kept everyone there an hour past when they could have gone home.
i feel like shit. i also feel like slugging my supervisor in the belly. it's not like i spend the time when I "don't have access to the laser" dicking around, drinking, smoking up or watching TV. i've been working my little ass off, pulled in five directions at once. it was our LAST issue that i'd just worked on, so his timing was shitty as hell. if he'd just given me another two days, that message wouldn't even have been relevant.
my friends are being quite supportive of me -- although not productively so. "just tell him 'i don't need your stinking master's degree. i'm getting me a NEW master's,'" they tell me to say.
"just reply to his message with, 'duh.'"
"what is this research of which you speak?"
i want to.
i really do.
ass.
***
fortunately, also in my inbox was a message from my dear friend VM, who seems to have different but equally aggravating problems with his own grad supervisor. here's my favourite excerpt:
"...he usually notices the smallest of things and gets this smug smile of superiority when it's something he finds amusing. Case in point, I was drinking a can of mountain dew at a meeting at Nortel. He noticed this but didn't say anything. Then the next time I saw him, he asked me where my can of mountain dew was, claiming that I was the only person he knew who drank 'that stuff.' Well, sorry to have forgotten my bottle of 1959 Chateau Fombrauge vintage merlot at home, you pretentious fuck."
...
being able to commiserate makes things just that tiny bit better. thanks, dude.
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