We hear the question “How was your break?” at least 10 times a day. The echoes of this question remind us of the utter loneliness of our winters just as much as they foreshadow the weary stretch of all-nighters that lies ahead. Everybody is starting 2020 by searching — Emory for a new president, you and I for an end to our suffering. As always, Doolino is here to guide you through the semester, whether it be for “Beesiness” school applications or massive textbook bills, we are all in this together.
After I got off the plane at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, officially marking the end of my stay at the desert oasis known as winter break, I was greeted by a rather unsettling prospect. I was planning on settling into this new semester with grace and confidence, but my course textbook list has other plans for me. Apparently I have an extra $350 in textbook costs breathing down my neck this semester.
Instead of catching up with friends and admiring the overcast Atlanta sky, I’ll be spending the first several days of the semester staring at the gaping hole that has just opened up in my bank account. I’m taking a light load this semester — just physical chemistry, human physiology, differential equations and three labs — but it’s still going to take me all semester to earn back the money wasted on textbooks that I probably won’t even open. On top of these textbooks, I’m sure several of my professors will graciously demand we sign up for some newfangled online assessment systems that costs at least $40.
I’m sure the good people at McGraw-Hill are barely getting by on their billion dollar revenue. Please, Doolino, help me out. And please, don’t recommend pirating textbooks online — my good, clean heart just couldn’t bear to commit such a sinful act.
Overbooked and Underfunded
I understand your situation completely. How do you think I became a skeleton? I had to pawn off most of my organs during my undergraduate years to pay for my textbooks. Prices in the 1560s were absolutely criminal.
Anyway, here’s my advice. Since you said piracy isn’t something you can morally stomach, your next best bet is a pot of gold. I recommend searching nearby rainbows, ideally somewhere on Emory’s campus. Once you spot a rainbow and travel to the end of it, with any luck, you’ll find both a pot of gold and a leprechaun.
The next step is to use that gold to finance your complete takeover of the Emory administration. After you’ve bought the loyalty of the entire Board of Trustees, you’ll want to install the leprechaun as the next president of Emory, following University President Claire E. Sterk’s official retirement. Of course, this leprechaun will be nothing more than a figurehead. You’ll be the mastermind in the shadows. And the first priority of the leprechaun’s administration will be to greatly reduce textbook costs. Trust me, I’ve considered every possible solution, and this is the one with the lowest risk and highest reward.
Best of luck,
I have always known I wanted to apply to the Goizueta Bee School. Since middle school, I’ve studied the intricacies of honey finance, distribution and marketing. Each morning, I wake up to my alarm clock’s soothing bee-swarm noises and look up to see the Elon Buzz poster taped to my dorm-room wall. He reminds me that, with hard work and talent, I too can, one day, be the queen bee of a Fortune 500 company.
But I have to get into Emory’s prestigious Bee School to get there, and I just don’t know if I have what it takes. I frequent all the right hives, I’ve eaten so much royal jelly I could puke, I know what flowers give the best recommendation letters and I’ve taken the infamous bee-con class and all the other prerequisites. But I just can’t shake the feeling that I won’t get in, and that my ultimate destiny is to be just another drone in the hive. I’m at my wit’s end. Help a bee out.
Dear Bugged Out,
Nerves are normal. I was in a similar situation when I applied to Emory Collage, Emory’s preeminent arts-and-craft institute. I spent so much time worrying about what type of googly eyes to buy and whether I should get magazine clippings from National Geographic or Time Magazine that I forgot the point of it all. Arts and crafts should be fun, and so should honey manufacturing. I recommend you leave your anxiety behind by reflecting on why honey really matters to you. Your passion for honey is obvious, and you should let that guide you rather than fretting over your resume.