In mid-August, proceeding my freshmen year, I was eager to get into Statistics 100A. I desired to take a math class and I had already finished the Math 9 series; math is my favorite field of study. When I tried to sign up for the class using the online registration program, it told me that I had to get permission form the professor to take this class. This was bizarre

Following that morning, I got dressed and this time, instead of a road trip, this was road rage towards the intolerable campus. As I opened the door to the office, I saw a lady leaning on the counter writing on a small piece of notebook paper and another lady sitting at the desk closest to me on the left. This time I had my glasses and I did not recognize either one of these women. “I was here a month ago and I talked to a woman about not being able to enroll in Stat 100A and she didn’t believe me but here is my proof. I can’t enroll and it’s your department’s fault.” As I continued to indirectly insult the previous woman, I had observed this lady moving away from the front counter and had sat into a chair that the pervious woman sat in. It is the same women! I did not recognize her and I was talking trash about her right to her face. You are talking trash about somebody with your friends but then you realize that that person has been standing behind you the entire time. Still, this was worse; I told it to her face. Who cares, she was the wrong one. She got out of the seat and came to see my print out and said that she could not believe this happened. “It’s not our fault, it’s not our problem.” She alleged that it was the registers office’s fault. I told her if she could have just added me into the class manually from her computer and she said that the class was full. I strong emphasized, “The class wasn’t full when I tried to register y-e-s-t-e-r-d-a-y!”

She told me to go down to the registers office, which was completely on the other side of campus, and they should help me out with my problem. I walked for what felt like an hour in the heat and scolding sun. Sweat, not only ran down my face, but my back and legs too. When I entered the register’s office, the lady at the front desk explained to me that I had to go back and tell the statistics department to call Linda. “Why can’t I just talk to Linda, I don’t want to walk all the way across campus back to the statistics department.” I knew I had to go back to the statistics department anyways because my car was in that direction but I certainly did not want to present myself to that women in the statistics department because I was embarrassed. “Only departments can talk to Linda.” At this point I was feed up with the offices in both departments.

to me because I had all the prerequisites meet. I was not satisfied with this response and I had to get into the class quickly or the class would have filled up. Getting worried about my fate at the new school persuaded me to try two, three, four more times just to receive the same response. Soon enough, anger started to crawl into my finger tips while sitting at my desk. I had began tapping my finger nails on the desk (first the small finger, the ring finger until the pointing finger, then back to the small one) frustrated to find a solution to my problem. Then it hit me, like a kicked ball directed towards my balls, I should go to the source, the statistics department. I did not want to call them because I have had dreadful experiences with admission offices at different ca

Some topics in this essay:
, Student ID, statistics department, sitting desk, lady sitting desk, statistics class, register’s office, restrictions class, statistics building, lady sitting, statistics department call, junior senior, permission instructor enroll, narrow hallways, enrollment class,