With finals looming on the horizon, it’s almost time to start the bi-annual end-of-semester pissing contest (The metaphorical piss being one’s volume of papers/exams in combination with the slew of impending due dates). It’s kind of like Victoria’s Secret’s “Semi-Annual Sale,” except it sucks.
The conversation goes something like this:
“Hey what’s up?”
“Oh not much, I just have 432 pages to write and 19 finals to take in the next 20 minutes.”
“That’s nothing, I have 5,213 pages to write, 23 finals to take and Wawa is out of Red Bull.”
This dialogue usually goes back and forth with each party one-upping the other until exhaustion takes over, and both people collapse on the floor of the lobby in Van Pelt.
But really, can we stop having this conversation? In the time we waste recounting the seemingly insurmountable mountain of things to do, we’re really not accomplishing much. In fact, in the time I’m wasting whining about people whining I could have at least made a dent in those 5,213 pages or scored some Red Bull from CVS.
Worst of all, we only have ourselves to blame for creating this predicament. Why bother with time management when, thanks to the advent of caffeine and prescription drugs, you can work wide-eyed in the library from now until graduation with a heart rate of 210? (Not that I’m endorsing this — I prefer to run purely off my own sense of panic).
Besides, things could be worse. You could be subject to the cholera epidemic in Zimbabwe, you could have just hung up on the president-elect or you could be a Detroit Lions fan.
And as much as we gripe, it all gets done in the end anyway. So peel yourself up off the floor of the library, dust yourself off (maybe buy the book/coursepack you never got around to purchasing) and get cracking.
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