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The financial aid office, aka the one place where the Nazi regime still has a stronghold on administrative policy, is where I spent two hours of my life. Two hours that I will regrettably never be able get back.

I have to imagine the application for employment in that particular department consists of two questions:

1.) Are you a complete bitch?

2.) Do you get off destroying the hopes and dreams of this nation’s youth by ripping the financial rug right out from underneath them?

I think this because every person that words in that office is an asshole. You walk in and the receptionist is a gigantic puckering sphincter, winking at you asking, “What the fuck do you want?” Because you’re clearly interrupting everyone with your pathetic, mindless concerns about paying for your degree.

Then they make you fill out a thirty-seven page form regarding the nature of your visit to the financial aid office, which they promptly throw away when you turn it back in. They must, they must throw it away because when you finally do make it to one of the advisors they ask you the same exact questions. It’s a very Nazi thing to do; it’s the clerical version of a forced labor camp.

After waiting several hours, they finally send an obese woman who is the poster child for “don’t give a fucking shit,” wearing an expression that implies she couldn’t really care less if you dropped dead. That’s when the ungodly mental abuse begins.

They sit you in a cubicle and answer your questions with questions.

“I’m a little curious, why did they decide to take back my financial aid?”

“Well, do you know why they took back your financial aid?”

“No, ma’am, I do not. That’s why I am here.” This is when they take a tone with you and act as if you are asking a question you should already know the answer to.

“If you would have read form 124.87B, section 22.3, paragraphs 89-2,300 you would see the policy and procedure that is in place for revoking financial aid.”

“I have no idea what form 124.87B, section 22.4, paragraphs 89-2,300, is.”

“Sir, this is not that complicated to understand.”

“Well, clearly it is that complicated otherwise they wouldn’t have dedicated 6,000 square feet of office space specifically for the sole purpose of explaining it. If it wasn’t that complicated this area would be a cafeteria, but alas, it is an office designed for explaining financial aid, so it must be that complicated.”

Today while my advisor was rambling on about some whatchamafuck form, all I could think was how both myself and the bolts in the chair she was sitting on are both under a great deal of stress; sooner or later, one of us is going to snap. Oh, but you can’t say that out loud, not on a college campus. Not with all the decapitating of fellow classmates and such that is going on these days. No, they would rather drive you silently to the brink of insanity, keep it to yourself, go home and down a bottle of pills and end your suffering in a quiet, dignified manner. It’s the proper way to do things. I’m sure there’s a form that explains all of it, but I haven’t been able to find that one either.

Her advice to me was that I could put the tuition payment on a credit card. That’s the same thing the woman at Macy’s told me. And Guess. And Gap. And H&M. Now Visa owns not only my mortal body but my soul in the afterlife. I have started selling off parts of my brain to help patients with brain damage to make minimum payments. It’s cool though, I clearly have more than enough brain to go around since her suggestion was one of the stupidest ideas I have ever heard in my life. Yes, let me charge this semester to my credit card with 300% interest, you dumb asshole. Maybe if I’m lucky that will earn me enough Reward Zone points to get a $5.00 Starbucks gift card so I can sip a macchiato and mull over the sad state of my financial affairs. I think that is exactly what I need.

- Michael