Back 2 School Blues

I don't remember my dreams very often, and when I do, I have either a hard time piecing together a narrative because my dreams are often so chaotic I can't put them into words, or I don't have the attention span to focus long enough to fictionalize the raw data. However, when I do have a lucid dream or a lucid episode, I take note.
This is why I know now that despite struggling with the notion of returning to academia for the entirety of my short leave of it, I am clear on one thing: I never want to take a foreign language class again.
Last night I dreamt that I had returned to school and my first class of the semester was German Idealism in Ham-Smith 19. Equally excited and suspicious (characteristic of my love/hate relationship with the field), I am waiting patiently for the Professor to show up. After a few minutes, in walks a man who looks a lot like Professor DeVries but much less substantial (clearly reared on corn flakes as opposed to schnitzel). Not three steps behind him is an even shorter man with black, thick-rimmed glasses and a mane of white hair.
To my surprise, pseudo-DeVries proceeds to just stand in front of the class, slightly to one side, jovially saying and doing absolutely nothing as the other man, nameless, begins writing on the blackboard. I quickly become anxious and confused and realize that the man is writing an elaborate schedule on the board that is beginning to indicate that a.) I would be spending more time in this class than I had intended or wanted to, and b.) this probably isn't a German Idealism course. I raise my hand and not-pseudo-DeVries calls on me.
"Isn't this German Idealism?" I ask.
"This is Spanish class," he viciously responds.
Taken aback by the misunderstanding, I promptly blank out and the next thing I know I am watching porn in my dorm room.