I'm sitting on the floor surrounded by notebooks, papers (both loose and stapled), books, power chords for laptop, printer and cell phone charger, my jacket slung over the bedpost, messenger bag slumped awkwardly against the dresser where it was dropped on Friday evening; my sanity is slowly being bent to my will.
Math will come, ere I perish. I will know the formulas inside out and backwards by Wednesday or I'll, I'll, I don't know what I'll, because I will know them.
So will Greek, History and Theology. I'm not sure how it happens, but finals come every term and so far I've come through 6 of them and I'm still alive, albeit feeling a bit like a veteran of some sort of bizarre war with weaponry that consists of bombs made of study sheets and empty coffee to-go cups.
Laugh not. Rather recognize that beneath the calm exterior of apparent confidence and laid back assurance, we are all frantically cramming in the last bits of knowledge that will enable us to dazzle our professors and enter yet another term of NSA.
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