Deadlines are deadlines. If you can’t turn something in on time, that’s not my problem. I don’t do extensions, I don’t do extra credit, and I don’t do sympathy points. I deduct points if I get a test back with tears on it, because it smudges the handwriting. My class is hard because it’s supposed to be—this is AP Chemistry, not kindergarten. If you wanted easy, you should’ve taken AP Environmental Science. I don’t care if you ‘forgot’ about the test, if your dog ate your homework, or if your WiFi magically went out the night before an assignment was due. You knew the deadline. I announced it. I wrote it on the board. I put it in the syllabus. I even stared directly into your soul while reminding you about it. If you didn’t write it down, that sounds like a you problem. Phones? The second I see one, I take it, and I feed it to Ms. Idongaf’s pet snake. You are not important. The grade you earn in my class defines you. Every year, students act like I’m the villain because I expect them to try. They whisper in the hallways, crying, whimpering, saying I have no soul. Maybe I don’t. But you know what you don’t have? An A in my class. So get your racks up, and hustle. I’m not here to hold your hand. If you want someone to tell you “good job” for putting in the bare minimum, call your grandma. If you don’t like the way I run my class, drop it. Go ahead. Find another teacher that lets you breathe. But if you stay, beware. My students might complain now, but the ones who survive always come back and thank me—once they recover from the trauma. They realize their college professors won’t baby them either. And when they do? Oh, it’s my favorite moment. The smug “You were right” texts I get from my former students are what I live for.