I Believe

I'm sick of my dissertation supervisor giving me her pitying, falsely kind smile with a look in her eyes which unmistakably conveys the message 'You'll be working in a call centre this time next year'. She thinks I'm crap. She makes me think I'm crap. She tries to be kind about it but not very effectively. She says things like 'I'm not saying this is rubbish, but...' after she has verbally cut my entire 11,500 word document to pieces. Time is marching on and yet she's still starting meetings with 'Well I've read this through quickly...'. Thanks for taking the time to fucking skim the draft I spent days on, that was really nice of you. Hope it didn't spoil your weekend. The hand in date is less than 3 weeks away? Don't worry about it, you take your time.

Thankfully before I went to meet her today I picked up an essay I'd been putting off collecting. A one week late, written in 2 insomniac-y nights, hardly any research, piece of crap essay. Oh yes you can congratulate me on my sixty eight percent. So dissertation woman can go and fuck herself because I. Am. Clever. Enough.