Rock-a-bye-baby.

8 Feb

Exactly 365 days ago, almost to the hour, my fellow dorm friends and I were crying like little school girls on the first day of kindergarten. The inevitable departure was upon us; summer had arrived, and we were all going our separate ways. I was so depressed. What was I going to do without Marcus throwing up Ice 101 all over my bathroom, or Cole festering in his stinky blankets every morning enduring a hangover from hell? How would I go on without being able to harass a naked Steve in the shower every now and again, or join Nick in making pancake and sausage feasts every morning? What would happen now that I could no longer pass out in the stairwell with bar stamps melting to my face in backwards t-shirts?

The future seemed bleak.

One year later, however, I find myself so antsy to get the F out of universidad that I can hardly stand it. Finals are rocking me like a Nine Inch Nails concert, and I can think of nothing more than basking in the melanoma-causing sun and passing out drunk in my neighbor’s front lawn several times a week. I simply canNOT wait to be finished with escuela.

Tomorrow will be the death of me. After I finish my last exam around 2 p.m., I will be injecting Everclear into my arteries with an IV and celebrating the end of the term with my fellow alcoholics. Someone call 911 ahead of time; make sure they’re prepared. Hopefully this year we won’t cry.

As much.

Before I jump the gun though, I have to get through my last two tests. I have a test in less than two hours. I studied for maybe an hour and a half, total. I’m not worried. Duck’s tests look like this:

Which of the following is not one of Grice’s four maxims?
a) Quantity
b) Quality
c) Quesadilla

I know primates who couldn’t fail if they tried.

Core Concepts is tomorrow though, folks. Ohhh. It’s going to be bad. Tonight I will be sweating and crying over the material with Cassie. I should probably down a bottle of Midol and maybe some Zoloft before I go to keep the menopausal breakdowns to a minimum. I hate this class more than any white supremist has ever hated a black. It’s terrible. Somebody help me cheat.

So the past few nights I’ve been taking two Advil PMs before bedtime to assure a good night’s sleep. The result? Ridiculous dreams.

The other night, I dreamed that I got kidnapped by Marshall Mathers. It was fucking awesome. We went on all these crazy little adventures–it was like a dream come true. The whole time he was demanding that I not call or text anyone about my location or he’d end my life, and I was like, ok. So we travelled to this quaint little Amish-like town and found a cute little barbershop staffed entirely with old women. We decided to get Slim Shady’s hair cut. Not just cut, though; he would get shapes buzzed into his hair. The design we chose? Three heads. Then he told me that one time he bleached his hair, and ever since then it had stopped growing. Then he made me touch it and said, “Yeah, this is the same hair I’ve had since the beginning of my career.”

Then I decide I need to take a dump. So I’m pooping, and he just comes right on in and starts taking a bath. We bonded. Next, I suggested we travel to various hotels off the interstate and steal their mini-shampoo bottles.

End.

Then last night, I dreamed that Zach Duysen was sword-fighting me on my bed. Then Anna Nicole Smith was being high off her ass in this giant indoor pool area, and got mad at me and the people I was with and said she was going to go drive home. Everyone encouraged me to talk her out of driving drunk, so I followed her into a vanity area and pleaded with her not to drive under the influence. Instead, she put on a wedding dress and jumped into the swimming pool. Following this episode, I gave birth to a three year old girl that I named Blake.

End.

I’m high.

“I don’t want to throw down with Martha–she’s done time!”

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