Holiday countdown doubles as final days in classes
On the first day of finals my professors gave to me — five tests in one week.
Hey, it’s reasonable. If you have no social life. Or you’re Stephen Hawking. Above all else, there are two words that can darken any day: cumulative exam. That’s like asking us to start eating a meal one side item at a time, then forcing us to choke down the entire plate at once. No one’s happy and nothing gets passed. In either situation.
On the second day of finals my professors gave to me — two hours of sleep.
Which explains why my left eye keeps twitching. And also why my personal hygiene has suddenly made the leap from “shower once a day” to “I might have forgotten deodorant” to “I’ve already lost five hair ties — in my own hair.” But hey, when you finally find them, it will like your own personal Christmas gift. To you.
On the third day of finals my professors gave to me — three text books.
So what if I just bought these. I like to see it as a personal challenge to see how well I could do in the course without them. Now if only I could figure out what chapters we’ve gone over this semester. I just hope someone’s already highlighted all the important parts.
On the fourth day of finals my professors gave to me — four study guides.
Well these are all ten pages long. And there’s a lot of names, dates and “sample questions” that will probably not even be on the test. Time to separate the “important” from the “semi-important” and the “I can probably just guess on this because this guy’s name rhymes with mine and I think I can rent a movie on this.”
On the fifth day of finals my professors gave to me — five cups of coffee.
You know how you can earn a free drink from Starbucks when you buy five holiday beverages? I did that in one day. I blacked out after my third peppermint mocha and apparently organized all the food in my refrigerator by color.
On the sixth day of finals my professors gave to me — six Red Bull wings.
I don’t remember how long how I’ve been in this study cubicle or my own mother’s name. But I am taking review notes at a speed that transcends the boundaries of time and space. I can’t even read my own writing but the more facts I copy down, the smarter I feel.
On the seventh day of finals my professors gave to me — seven pairs of sweatpants.
Sweatpants are all that fits me right now, guys. Just kidding. I’m lazy and the more fabric I wear, the less my professors will be able to detect my fear. What matters is that my shoes match. They do match, right?
On the eighth day of finals my professors gave to me — eight hours on Wikipedia.
Chances are, if you don’t know it, there’s some 43-year-old man in Dubai that does. Never mind those bolded, red flag words like “verification” and “citation.” It’s an encyclopedia. It can’t be wrong.
On the ninth day of finals my professors gave to me — nine nervous breakdowns.
In the library. On the floor. On the main level. I briefly considered dropping out and just going to nail technician school where the only thing you’re judged on is the color of your smock.
On the tenth day of finals my professors gave to me — ten “short” study breaks.
Because who doesn’t want to see retro-filter Instagram photos of one student’s descent into madness accompanied by caffeine and a lack of printer ink. Why study when I can creep on my ex’s Facebook page or pin eight new recipes for quiche?
On the eleventh day of finals my professors gave to me — eleven late-night Cookout runs.
Nothing helps realizing that you learned absolutely nothing this year go down easier than a pecan pie milkshake or a cheeseburger smothered in chili and slaw. You may not be any smarter, but eating your feelings is the best way to suffocate them.
On the twelfth day of finals my professors gave to me — twelve pages of research.
I was supposed to start this two months ago. But I didn’t. Too many things happened at once. Like football season. And Halloween. And pint night.