Down to the wire

Two days and one hour. That's how long I have to finish the last three take-home exams that are all due Tuesday at 5PM. Somehow, I've known all along that it would come to this-- a semi-mad dash at the end of the exam period to get all my shit done. And, of course, a week ago I had the best intentions of getting everything finished early. Maybe there's some part of me that figures I'd get the same grade no matter how early I completed the exam. Maybe I'm trying to become one of those people that can successfully do everything at the last minute. I like to think I'm already that kind of person.

I remember back in 9th grade I wrote a research paper for the National History Fair on weapons proliferation that I was up at 5AM editing and revising when the paper was due at 7. My mom told me after that point that I would learn my lesson about doing things at the last minute because the paper would go nowhere. But instead it went to the state fair. Not bad for a high school freshman. I think that was the pivotal point that instilled this nasty monster of a bad habit in my work ethic.

If you can bend far enough without breaking, it seems like the payoff is always greater.

Maybe all the last-minute stress is bad for my heart. I think I have a good understanding of my potential on assignments and exams and I attempt to scale my studying accordingly. Or I'm just an idiot and I could be doing a lot better right now. Pshaw.

My mom has been sending me quite a few excited e-mails about me driving back on Wednesday. I've already voiced my opinion about how I'm not entirely excited to be back in Panama City Beach. Rice is my home, Panama City is where my family lives. I really wish my family would go to rural Italy or Colorado or Japan or something for Christmas. If I had to be bored somewhere for 9/10ths of my break, I'd rather it be somewhere new and cool and exciting doing things that were stimulating. Instead, here's how it's gonna go.

21-24th: Bored.
25th-26th: Playing with presents.
27th-31st: Bored

Then, New Years. I can see it now. Because of the giant rift in my friends that's been developing ever since I left town, I'm going to have to make a big decision about where I'm going to be when the clock strikes midnight. Either I can be at some debauched party somewhere in a sketchy part of town with two people who know who I am, or at a reputably tamer party somewhere in a nice, gated neighborhood where more people know me. The second one would be better if it didn't involve a great deal of people that I haven't talked to in years yet feel the need to pretend to be my friend.

Thirty brain-dead slackers I don't know, or thirty yuppie children all asking me how Houston is going. It's not even a choice. It's a lesser of two evils. Why does partying on New Years have to involve selling some important part of my soul? Either I wake up feeling shame for the degenerates I pretend to like or I wake up feeing shame for acting like I'm thirty already.

It might just be me and Dick Clark on that fateful Sunday night.

When I think about where my life is right now, several literary characters come to mind-- honest guys who are just trying to have fun and yet find themselves in a world they don't feel bisects them in the right place. Nick Carraway from the Great Gatsby comes to mind. "You" from Bright Lights, Big City also comes to mind. Making important choices about friendships, relationships. Questioning ethical and rational values. A pause in the midst of fast-paced life. They're are all recurring literary themes. Seems like life draws from art all the time.

The only thing that reassures me is that it seems everywhere I look, every blog I read, it's a similar story. Apparently young people feel disillusioned and confused in the midst of all these choices that now have to be made. Who would have thought? The problem is that no one talks about it. They just write about it on the Internet. I guess that's where the smart people hang out, because I can't for one minute picture myself walking up to any one of my suitemates and being like "I don't know where my life is headed, wanna talk about it?"

Actually, that's kind of a funny idea. But it just reminds me of how few people I know would give meaningful insight into it.

I would recruit any able-bodied women willing and able to clean to come to my common room immediately. Mikey got FUCKING CRAB CLAWS for his birthday and it smells like he rubbed them all over the floor and walls a few nights ago. It smells like crab claw orgy down at the docks. Why crab claws? Why in my common room? Why did he have to be drunk while he ate them? The urge to puke is certainly there.