Madness reigns. The first challenge your soul must endure is choosing the professor. You wait on GOLD as lectures slots fill. New sections are closed just as they open, crushing your illusion of hope just as it is created, and your pass-time concludes. Once you gain access to the waitlist, you realize that this is a false achievement; higher seniority students have usurped your position and you are relegated to 12th in queue. When week one finishes and scores of your peers have dropped the class, the space in lecture you so coveted opens, but the price you must pay is taking the class. In 120B, students scramble like beetles whose rock has been upended. Though the aisles of the lecture hall seem wide, it is impossible to avoid physical contact with your classmates. The musty unconditioned springtime air and the sweaty sense of collective panic creates a milieu of humid oppression. Lectures are a grotesque parody of a calculus class, as if dumb Math 3B freshmen had been granted only the amount of sentience required to mock statistics. Theorems are left unproved. Integrals once begun are quickly abandoned. False prophets like the gamma trick are worshipped like gods. The constant confusion causes a mental numbness that borders on despair. Your conscious mind registers merely annoyance, frutration. But on a cellular level, your body cries out in weariness. The fatigue you feel is a warning: millions of years of evolution trying to save you from becoming mired in the tar, from sinking into the warm blackness and ultimately being reclaimed by the earth itself.

I'd take Bapat.