by Cooper Young
I don’t have time for this. I really just don’t.
So, next week is Dead Week, the week in which professors can give us no new information. Few abide by that rule, of course, but it hardly matters; most of my finals are either papers handed in by X time on Y day, or in-class essays. I think Biological Psychology is my only real exam.
Yet, I believe I have more to do next week because of all this than I would if I had five exams. I test well. I don’t work well. I have an eight page paper on Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood due on the thirteenth, a meeting with my NFP advisor on the twelfth, a fifteen page business proposal due on the eleventh, a three page close reading of Sherman Alexie’s Flight due on the sixth ( by the by, that book is absolutely amazing. READ IT), a meeting with my wedding planner on the fifth, a three page close reading on Don DeLillo’s The Names and a presentation on my business proposal both due on the fourth. On the third, I have jury duty.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s going to be THAT kind of two weeks.
I would also have a ten page paper (and associated presentation) on efforts to preserve the Lushootseed language due on the fourth, but after going to all but the last two classes, I’ve decided to bail on my North American Indians class. I found out about two weeks ago that I will definitely not graduate, and since I have to take two more classes anyway, I see no reason to go through with a class I abhor, especially since that would mean breaking my back this weekend to finish both that and all my research for the business proposal. I didn’t feel like doing that, so at break on Tuesday, I took my bag with me “to the bathroom” and never went back. I don’t intend to return this Tuesday or the next. I’m just done.
I’ve been going to school non-stop since last fall. I did two classes over winter break, which one of my professors said should warrant the impeachment of my academic advisor. I did twenty-one hours last semester, twenty-two this semester. When I found out that there was finally, totally no way for me to graduate, I was really too exhausted to be upset. I’m just done, really.
I want to clean my house.
I want to play with my kid.
I want to write my book.
I want to spin wool and watch films noir and bake pies until I cease to be awful at it.
I want to finish planning my wedding.
I want to get married.
I want to read everything I ever should have read and haven’t yet.
I want to read The Picture of Dorian Gray over and over until my eyes burn and the pages fall to smudgy ash between my fingertips.
I want to write and write and write.
I want to get blasted on rum and absinthe and pear cider,
And then write and write and write.
I want to sleep until the end of the world, and never dream of anything except my little neuron-friends, the people who exist only in the flashing of my synapses.
Their eyes are lovely in the dark.