Bill Dungsroman wrote:

I have a part-time job as a science instructor at a local grad school prep center. I teach Biology, Inorganic and Organic Chemistry for the MCAT for admission to medical school. Being the helpful guy I am, I offer to help students with their applications, such as editing (yes, I do semiprofessionally edit!) their personal statement. It's pretty much a two-page Cry Me a River screed where you're supposed to mention stuff like how you watched your dad die slowly of pancreatic cancer and how much better a doctor you're going to be as a result. The finesse is in toeing the line between whining and braggin about how, due to these tragedies, you're TUFF like that.

So I'm helping this cute little girl, pretty but mousy. A big part of her PS is concerning her brother, who is profoundly retarded and epileptic to boot. Some people have all the luck.

Anyway, we get lunch, and the conversation turns from her bummer-ass childhood to mine. I regale her with tales of not caring much about going to college, even though I graduated with high honors yadda yadda yadda. How I could have gone to a spifferific college, but I hung around like a dipshit and shuffled half-heartedly into UNLV. She asks me why I didn't get my shit together back then.

"I dunno, I guess I was sort of retarded."

"Ah. Retarded. Interesting."

In a later e-mail, I used the word "spaz," too.