Twice a year the internet goes aflame with the violence and rapidity of a forest fire doused in kerosene, seemingly igniting every blog and website in existence. Why? Well because finals, that’s why. Thankfully, the web is at the tail end of it now. We can all go back to watching My Little Pony and laughing at cats (the fluffy crack of our generation) now , but not without a short interjection from me.
You see, like every other student in existence I hate finals. Not because they’re particularly difficult, not because they require studying for the first time this semester, but because they screw with your schedule. Twice a year you check online, go into an office and tailor make a schedule for yourself like you’re some type of wizard of time. It’s like being Harry Potter mixed with The Doctor, except you have to pay for it in the end, reminding you that you are much more akin to the Weasleys, but without any of the perks.
Carefully planned, your life for the next several months is ruled by this schedule. It is also sacrificed to many times, feasting on every declined invitation. The “oh sorry, I have to study. I’ll have to catch up with you later,” is it’s favorite meal; the subject’s dejection is like a fine wine to accompany this scrumptious feast. After weeks of trying to adjust though, the student finally understands the schedule, and plans accordingly.
For a while, everything is good. Pulling an all-nighter to finish an essay becomes a regular thing, as well as classroom nap time. It’s like being back in preschool again, except now there’s the softly wafting smell of cigarettes hanging in the air. But it doesn’t matter, because goddammit, we know what we’re doing now. Our schedule is proof of that.
This wonderful pattern is allowed to persist for somewhere between sixteen and eighteen weeks, becoming stronger and stronger until a sudden realization dawns upon you. That horrifying realization that soon, exams will come. Also, that you are in one way or another screwed. And unfortunately, I am not immune to this.
As has been suggested, I squandered my time throughout the semester, waiting last minute to finish assignments, and never, ever, studying. Part of it was spent writing about narwhals (because they’re awesome and why not?!), another bit was spent Christmas shopping (yet I still hate Christmas…), and the rest was spent while generally being slovenly (curse you, reddit). Naturally, I was shocked when the teachers made that most terrifying exclamation that exams were just around the bend.
Panic struck.
Heart rates quickened.
And then I went back to not caring.
Except there was still that one small problem; it screwed with the well-established pattern I had carefully constructed. All those months abiding by and memorizing it seemed wasted. Everything must change. Which meant no more classroom nap time, which meant no more sleep in general. Those bastards.
But still, I trudged forth into finals knowing that freedom would soon be mine. Oh, it was nothing more than a long-forgotten memory, but I could almost taste it. It tasted like the wind and the sun, eagles flying over mountains whilst simultaneously bursting into glorious flames, and oddly, coconuts.
With these liberating images in my mind I prepared myself for the first final, tweaking my schedule to fit my needs. Like so many before me, hours were spent poring over the book, memorizing formulas, trying to find that elusive x, and simplifying numbers to things that no longer seemed simple. By the midnight prior I was ready for the exam, and set my alarm 7 a.m.
Based on prior experience, you’d think this is where I’d screw up. But luckily my sleep deprived self realized that it would be much easier just to stay up all night tossing and turning, creating wonderful delusions for my entertainment. Think a tale of a dystopian society ruled by bacon with some possible gummy bear master planners, and you have an idea of what was playing though my mind. A top notch show, really. The alarm clocks heinous screams were this grandiose display’s closing curtain, and in the blink of an eye I was up, giving it a standing ovation.
The rest of my morning procedure passed in what is considered a normal manner: tea was steeped, toast was made, clothes were hastily applied, and bag was packed. I was running perfectly on time… until my mother interjected.
The heavily-lidded, bath-robed thing shuffled its feet around the corner, sounding like a vacuum cleaner, choking to death on a dust bunny. She had one look at me before proclaiming, “I’m taking a shower. Watch your brothers.”
This was unacceptable.
But it was accepted, because doing otherwise would be a terrible crime. Nervously I paced the halls, awaiting that moment when the shower would click off and I could Usain Bolt-it out the door. I waited. And waited. Every second spent tapping my foot and pacing the hall was like a personal sin against the almighty schedule, but I still waited. Until ten minutes later when I said “screw this; I gotta leave!”
Running late, I dashed to my car. The voice of Gandalf followed me, yelling, “RUN, SHADOWFAX! Show us the meaning of haste!” Little did I know though that this day would be the coldest fucking morning of the entire year. That finally, winter was upon us. It was like California had been transplanted in Canada. My breathe froze instantly, tennis shoes slipped on frost, and by the time I reached my car, I realized it was frozen.
Not just a little bit on frost on the windshield. Completely. Frozen. Someone had taken my Mustang and replaced it with a snowman’s vehicle.
Water by the bucketful was thrown onto the windows in the silly hope that the ice might melt, but it only grew thicker and stronger. Clicking the wipers on did nothing. And more importantly, the engine would not turn over at all. Every single mechanical bit on that car had frozen. Already running far behind, I would have cried if I was not convinced the tears would freeze as well.
Luckily, my mother was emerging from the shower just as I was running back into the house, and she was informed of the unfortunate conditions. I wailed and threw my arms up into the air, and generally turned myself into a blubbering mess. Whilst I crumbled pathetically, my mother made a phone call, saying she would “handle the situation.” Which in most cases means she’s going to berate some poor soul working in customer service, but in this case meant calling someone with a less frozen car. I bummed a ride off one of her friends, uttered a thousand thank you-s to my chauffeur, and then ran like hell to my final, across the lawns, up the stairs, and down the hallway. I was panting, on the verge of an asthma attack when I pushed the classroom’s door open.
Ten minutes late, and I was the first one there.
Curse you, community college.
