Paloma from Pembroke Pines Posits a Pox.

Karma?
Why worry?

"Crying Caroline" was in several of my classes the year I taught at her school. She was both a flake AND a shameless brown-noser, an utterly hellish combination. When she did come to class, she sat in the front row, smiling and nodding compulsively like a bobble-head doll on crack. When she didn't—which was ALWAYS on a day when there was an exam or a major assignment due—she invariably had some heart-wrenching excuse: she just HAD to organize that letter-writing drive to free those Taliban hostages! She HAD to take those poor, poor under-served kids to the museum! Couldn't I see that she was making a real difference in the lives of others, and this was SO much more important than my trivial problem sets?

I hated her.

I was driving to campus, dreading the sight of her grinning, bobbing head, when the news of the Virginia Tech massacre came on the radio. Of course, my heart dropped. But being in an already foul mood (and stuck in freeway traffic), I couldn't help thinking, "I can't wait to see how Crying Caroline will try to use this to get out of class."

Then I wanted to slap myself for being a cynical bitch.

Flash forward two days later: Crying Caroline runs up to me outside my office: She can't come to class that afternoon because she was being interviewed by a local newspaper about how students are reacting to the Virginia Tech tragedy! And the only time the reporter could talk to her was—wait for it—during MY class!

And this was SO important because the world really needed to hear what she, an actual university student who COULD HAVE BEEN THERE, had to say about this very, very important matter! (No, our school was not even in the same time zone as VT.) And oh yes, she couldn't finish her homework either, because she was so traumatized by the tragedy!

I should note that our school was in a major metropolitan area with several other large universities. Of all the universities in town, each with tens of thousands of students, somehow Crying Caroline got picked as their representative. And of all the 168 hours in the week following the tragedy, the only possible time she could spill her guts to the media about her precious feelings was during MY CLASS!

Over thirty people died and a community was thrown into a world of pain—all so darling Caroline can avoid dragging her ass to campus.

A pox on her.