I just turned 22 this past Sunday and, as Danny Glover would say, I’m gettin’ too old for this s**t… school work, specifically. I can’t do it anymore, I’m gassed. The supposedly-easy class schedule I concocted for this semester has me officially flustered.
I didn’t imagine I’d be working harder on class work in my senior year than any other year at Fairfield. Every day, it seems there’s one more pointless assignment after another. There isn’t even anything remotely funny about this; I’ve seriously had enough.
I’m even fed up with half-assing my way through papers and tests. There was a time a few years ago where a five or six-page paper didn’t faze me. Right now, I think any one of you could translate the Bible into Braille with a toothpick faster than I could write a one-page journal entry.
I’d tell you a bunch of things I’d rather do than take a test at this point in my life, but I don’t think they’d get by The Mirror editors.
For whatever reason, this semester I became the school’s bitch. I mean, I used to own school work. I could BS my way through any assignment, given any due date, in any subject. Sophomore year I banged out a five-page paper on the history of the Kaiser Reich in pre World War II Germany two hours before it was due without reading a single book on the subject.
I think if I was handed that assignment today, I would cry even more than the time I found out Hulk Hogan took steroids (How can you blame me? Who would have known that you can’t be 6-foot-6-inches and 300 pounds by simply taking your vitamins and saying your prayers?).
What a sob story, right? I realize there are pre-med, nursing and biology majors at this school that do more school work in a week than I’ve done in my life time.
It is three weeks before finals and every single person at this school is buried with assignments and looming tests, not just me. So maybe I should get over it.
A 12-pack should do the trick.
In fact, forget finishing this non-credit assignment, I’m going to the bar.
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