Fret not my little Sailor.
Uncle Jay is going to tell you a little bed time story so you can fall asleep and dream away in a magical land of poison bushes and power trees.
When I was a wee lad of 22 (wee being relative to the fact I was 230 lbs, then) and struggling with math and basic physics, I was scared that the big bad power school was going to have its way with me and soon I would be scraping barnacles on the USS Waste Of Life.
There were braniacs acing the math tests and laughing at the newtonian examinations, while I was figuring how the hell to move an x from left to right and up and down, while having to take verbal lashings from some chunky dildo in khaki fashion ware.
All was lost.
But then I discovered a latent talent hidden in the recesses of my worried mind.
Conceptual Ability.
First Half GPA: 2.95
Graduating GPA: 3.46 (You do the math, I cannot)
Glory Glory Glory
The nerds, falling by the wayside as concepts, and relationships, and graphs, and schematics, and pretty colors and logic diagrams filled the chalk board, and I, the barbarian king, climbed to the top on stairs made of feeble dweebs basking in the awe of my memory and my excalibur: the white board.
Their GPAs plummeted, their egos waned, their smugness died the slow painful death of mandatory 20s and 40s deep into the 24th week as I, the anti-math, jubileed in my VOLs, danced on my Sundays, but still averaged over 35 hours a week (880 hours total) just to spite them and constantly remind those human calculators that I really did not have to be there. HA HA HAAAAAAAA.
Fear not, for you too shall be king.
Gather ye trusted white board and your quiver of markers. Slay them. Slay them. Slay them all with your mind.
Night Night.