The few, the proud, the stressed out

I've had two bags of pixie sticks, seventy-five pellets of Yellow Jackets, five ceiling-high stacks of sheets with once eloquently written words now under violent black scribbles, a saltshaker full of toothpicks, which I have devoured, splinters flying like Cookie Monster's cookies and protruding from my gums and a whole galaxy of multi-colored ups, downs, fits of screaming and deranged laughing…and also a quart of Epsom salt, a quart of rum, a case of stress balls, a pint of peanut butter fudge ice cream and two dozen cartons of Lucky Strikes.

And I need all this for the end of the semester. It's terrible; the projects, papers and finals mix like oil and water with the apathy.

There's only so much a student can take, and in my case it's the heinous number of articles that have me teetering on the edge of sanity. A journalism major working at the campus newspaper gets beat to a pulp by the 500 word perfect print -- the only thing perfect about the story -- sitting on a flat abysmal screen, just as a nursing student gets relentlessly injected with rectums and urethras and a political science major's head spins when the "partisan" politics and political correctness of today gets shoved down their throats.

I'm getting annoyed just typing this sentence right now, knowing that I have a five page paper to write, two rolls of film to develop and a website to layout and fill with stories, links, photos and videos. It seems like a timed-trial up K2 but instead of my legs giving way plunging me to an instant death, my brain is filling with bubbles and aneurisms. I know after the serotonin and adrenalin give out--which they shouldn't since I've eaten enough chocolate to build a solid chocolate life-size effigy of myself and by the end of the night I'm digging my way out of piles of coffee cups that have avalanched on top of me--I will crash.

The marines call their final sleep deprived tribunal 'the crucibical.' Southeast calls it 'finals week.' For those people with massive IQs and photographic memories, keep your talents under wraps! I will hunt you down and eat your brains with a silver spoon to gain your superpowers. I have wondered recently that if I expose myself to doses of radiation or gamma rays while reading, if I would gain massive brainpowers. Perhaps telekinesis? I could make the school servers crash and kidnap my professors' papers only to be found mangled at the bottom of a trashcan with a shredder looming over. I could be free. But I've decided against this for the sole purpose that I'd rather not grow extra appendages, and my mom would be furious if these $4,000 teeth started turning snaggled and falling out.

Not much longer will I have to do BS work. No, let me rephrase. Not much longer will I have to do BS work for free. And money is a powerful motivator to kiss butt and do whatever is asked with a smile.