Last Saturday, I spent a part of my evening in the presence of a stripper who went by Evette. She seemed interested in what my group was studying in school and told us a little story about her education.

During her senior year of high school, Evette said she consistently aced tests in her Advanced Placement psychology class. But she had a tardiness problem and wound up getting kicked out.

I’m not insinuating that her career as a stripper is a direct result of her class-attending difficulties, or even that a career as a stripper is not a respectable one. Still, the story troubled me, and I came to regard Evette as some sort of atheist prophet sent to save me from myself.

To say that I have a “tardiness problem” would be drastically understating my academic problems. A more accurate description is, “this moron doesn’t go to these really expensive classes in favor of curling her hair or going to El Rancherito.”

In fact, given the choice, I might opt to strip rather than go to class on days I shave my legs, if the price was right.

A life as a journalist and fast food addict has rendered me unable to sit at a table-like surface for too long without eating or producing something. I can’t even sit through a movie like an adult anymore. Some readers who attended a recent screening of “A Guy Thing” may remember me as the colorful character who made plane crash noises when the movie ceased to be interesting.

Watching television is nearly impossible unless I’m also reading, eating and conversing at the same time. Video games are an endless source of frustration — I end the adventure with nothing to show but sore thumbs and a hoarseness from screaming at the set.

I’ve managed to force myself to attend class with a crossword tucked into my bag. The crossword comes in handy when I want to look like I’m taking notes. I also use it in classes where I openly hate the professor, which has happened only once, to illustrate my disinterest in the subject matter.

But mostly, I find myself in my bedroom with 15 minutes before class starts facing a mountain of obstacles. I generally keep about a pudding cup’s worth of gas in my car, an amount I’m likely to use up in the endless search for a parking space. My boots, glasses and keys all are missing, and my hair is standing on end, mocking me. Not only am I growing out a short haircut, but I’ve developed a mysterious cowlick right in the front of my face that was not there before. Cold wind makes my eyes water so I look like a dejected transient walking to class.

All of this brings me to the realization that it would truly be better to spend the next hour tweezing my eyebrows or eating pancakes.

Other times I don’t even make it as far as standing upright and considering what stands between me and my class. Sleep has become an almost narcotic for me, and I am not proud to say I have more than once slept through a class that began later than 1 p.m.

Since my encounter with Evette and her fellow strippers, I have a renewed interest not only in class but also in several new piercings and a pole in my living room. I doubt I’ll become a stellar student, but at least I’ll be in class the majority of the time.

I wonder what form my next prophet will take.