The inner monologue is loud tonight.
“You can study for hours, but it won’t do you any good. This is Old English, which makes Greek look like Pig Latin. You bombed the last test after studying for three hours–what makes you think you’ll do any batter studying seven hours for this one? Just get up tomorrow early, after going to bed late, to cram more information in that will inevitably fall out your ears the minute you put your notes away.
Especially since you need to write a reading report on a literary theorist–pick a theorist, any theorist–and wade your way through their incomprehensible, high-minded blather in order to write two intelligible pages about what you think about what they think about…whatever it is that they thought about.
No one knows for sure.”
It’s Monday and I feel like I’m already losing.
There comes a time in ever students life when he or she wants to chuck all of their textbooks out the window, leap into the car, and drive away into the sunset, laughing like one deranged.
That time is now.
Just a few more weeks. Just a few more weeks. Just a few more weeks.