Every time I’ve walked out of my last final exam of the winter, I’ve been reduced to the human form of le monke. I’m always alarmingly sweaty, missing at least ½ a contact lens, vibrating from a jungle juice of different coffees (and like maybe one CBD water to cancel it out), and incapable of auditory comprehension. If natural selection was a bigger threat to people, I’d be clocked out within seconds.
This near-death state is a final product of the Biannual End-of-Semester Crescendo.
As an homage to campus years prior, I’ve always found that the weeks leading up to the semester’s end bring with it a myriad of horrors and inexplicable tensions that would never arise, say, mid-semester. There’s the obvious complete drop in quality of assignments turned in, the no attendance (but also, no enjoyment? no relaxation?), the weird low-level drama that always arises from the most mundane, yet rapidly escalated argument, and last but not least, the pseudo-romantic tension.
Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t contributed to this heinous phenomenon, that means you felt the overwhelming, oppressive, universal inclination and fought the urge to give in (congratulations, soldier). It’s the pinnacle of emotional overload, where the anxieties of having to complete a semester’s-worth of work meld beautifully with the existential realization that you’ll be leaving campus soon. The ramifications of this? Horrible.
People start dating like prolific, silent ninjas, and you only eventually realize that So-and-So are a couple when you catch them walking into Donut Crazy holding hands (a damning incident). One of your friends is bound to sit you down and reveal that they hooked up with literally the ONLY person you advised them not to, wasting a semester’s worth of logical reasoning. Everyone starts catching and professing feelings out of nowhere, with some idiot starting a devastating circlejerk of shot-shooting. The last weekend parties of the semester are swamps of regret, only to be discussed for 20 minutes in a stale Saturday afternoon brunch and contemplated for all of break. You leave campus feeling like you clawed your way out of an escape room of every intense human emotion known to man.
It’s abhorrent, but also the best way to end the year with a bang—quite literally sometimes.
Every time I’ve walked out of my last final exam of the winter, I’ve been reduced to the human form of le monke. I’m always alarmingly sweaty, missing at least ½ a contact lens, vibrating from a jungle juice of different coffees (and like maybe one CBD water to cancel it out), and incapable of auditory comprehension. If natural selection was a bigger threat to people, I’d be clocked out within seconds.
This near-death state is a final product of the Biannual End-of-Semester Crescendo.
As an homage to campus years prior, I’ve always found that the weeks leading up to the semester’s end bring with it a myriad of horrors and inexplicable tensions that would never arise, say, mid-semester. There’s the obvious complete drop in quality of assignments turned in, the no attendance (but also, no enjoyment? no relaxation?), the weird low-level drama that always arises from the most mundane, yet rapidly escalated argument, and last but not least, the pseudo-romantic tension.
Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t contributed to this heinous phenomenon, that means you felt the overwhelming, oppressive, universal inclination and fought the urge to give in (congratulations, soldier). It’s the pinnacle of emotional overload, where the anxieties of having to complete a semester’s-worth of work meld beautifully with the existential realization that you’ll be leaving campus soon. The ramifications of this? Horrible.
People start dating like prolific, silent ninjas, and you only eventually realize that So-and-So are a couple when you catch them walking into Donut Crazy holding hands (a damning incident). One of your friends is bound to sit you down and reveal that they hooked up with literally the ONLY person you advised them not to, wasting a semester’s worth of logical reasoning. Everyone starts catching and professing feelings out of nowhere, with some idiot starting a devastating circlejerk of shot-shooting. The last weekend parties of the semester are swamps of regret, only to be discussed for 20 minutes in a stale Saturday afternoon brunch and contemplated for all of break. You leave campus feeling like you clawed your way out of an escape room of every intense human emotion known to man.
It’s abhorrent, but also the best way to end the year with a bang—quite literally sometimes.
