I hate finals.
Hate, it is supposedly a strong word. I say it is not strong enough to describe what I feel about my finals.
How about duhate? Du, the latin prefix meaning two or double, is a nice additive to the word. It takes hate and then doubles it. Duhate = double hate.
I duhate finals.
Especially, because while preparing for the finals I have no time to read my comics, which is just sad.
I cannot wait until break. I am going to fill my head with so many things I don’t need to know, nor should ever know, so as to push out or replace all knowledge gleaned from this semester.
Okay, probably not. I actually really enjoyed what I learned from this semester. I know I know, I’m a dork. I like writing stories, reading literature, and learning about history and philosophy (all things I got to do this semester), and I think I’m not only a more intelligent person because of it, but also a better thinker.
Yet, with the end of these classes comes those looming tests and papers that I simply abhor. And, since they have deterred me from reading my comics, and thus kept me from my regular discussion of comics, I hiss at and dismiss them as ridiculous rights of passage not actually conducive to learning, but rather stressful and the very perpetuators of cramming, which, we all know, is that famed process of shoving all possible information that can be fit into one’s mind in one night, and then forgetting it all the following day.
Is this the right way to learn? Is this learning?
Of course, you could say, what the hell were you doing all semester to have this kind of workload? That’s what you get for procastinating.
And I, of course, would answer yes, it’s true, some of this is my fault. And then, some of it is just too much. As in, some of the classes just give too much work. There are only so many hours in the day.
I wish I could survive on two hours of sleep.
Then maybe I could finish reading Great Expectations.
You might as well just call me Pip. I am, as I prepare for the end of this semester and perhaps the end of my own great expectations, like him, a “small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry.”
Ah well. I’ll get through.
“So it goes.” (Slaughterhouse-five)
