You are caught up in a hundred little deaths of your soul these days. You are forced to sit through classes which are beneath you.
You know more about these books, these histories; you understand better than your peers. You are better read than some of your teachers. This is really true, at least in an academic sense.
In other classes you are made to study material you know you will never use. Odds are good you won’t need that quadratic formula in graduate school or in cooking your dinner.
And this is an indignity. You, O Suburban Minion, must abide the endless chores of polite conversation, acrid lunchroom shufflings, leading questions, obvious observations, and endless chores.
You have better taste.