Final Projects

As a student, during the first weeks of school, your future seems bright. You eagerly begin your end of term projects, optimistic that you'll complete it weeks before the completion date. You proudly save your document, and smile at yourself. You are a shining example--a person to be admired. You tuck away your class syllabus, and reward yourself with a treat for your model behavior.

6 weeks Later:
CRAP. What did you save that project under? Did you finish it? Please say that you finished it. Hmm? Would it be entitled "Final Project"? Possibly. Alright. It's pulling up. PLEASE. Please be completed. Okay, here's the moment of truth: ....and it's only two paragraphs long.
I could have sworn that I'd worked on it. I mean, I was so confident about it at the beginning of the semester--what happened?

Night Before the end of the semester:
I DON'T EVEN CARE ANYMORE!!!

Later that night:
Why. Why do these things happen to me? I'm a good person. I deserve better than this. This is not my life.

Day that it's due:
Teacher says, "Alright. Thank you for turning in your assignments. I hope that the end result was something that you can be proud of. To reward your hard work, I'll be giving each of you a completion grade. As long as you made some effort, you'll be going home with an A."

The class erupts with cheers. However, I just want to cry. I worked my little tail off, and that's how she thanks me? That kid over there can't even spell his name, and he and I are getting the same grade?

There's no justice in this cruel, sad world. No justice whatsoever.

Last Day of Class

Last New Testament Class: Meh. See you all later. Peace out, suckahs.
Last Humanities Class: Well guys, this has been great. I'm glad to have known you. Good luck with the rest of your lives---wait. What? You want to hold a review session? Together? Like, all of us? But...why? No. Umm. I thought we were...no, I mean it would be great to spend more time with you, but I just...Ok, fine. I'll go to your review session.
Last Biology Class: Good bye, dear friends! Yes, I realize that I never learned your name, but you were always so nice to me. I feel like we could have been really good friends if we'd only tried. Can--can I hug you?
Last English Class: Party! PAR-TY!
Last Art History Class: Oh my gosh. Get me out of this disgusting place. I never want to think about this class again. Ever. You guys were really fun to get to know, but I don't think I want to see any of you again, because seeing you would remind me of this horrid class, which is something I'm hoping to never have to do again.

Do Something Crazy

I've spoken to Javid three times. Just kidding. I've been in his presence three times, and have spoken to him once. Yet, he (more accurately, his face) is a part of my daily life. This is due to his risque Facebook profile picture--a close up of him, shirtless, leaning on a boat.
This photo never ceases to make me laugh--hard. Javid is such a reserved, uptight, cynical person. Whatever would possess him to take that picture, and then post it on Facebook? It was the most crazy, out of character decision he could have made--and it just makes my day. It brings me such joy, that my roommate has printed out his picture and mounted it on a piece of cardboard. This photo of him has surprised me in numerous locations: my closet, my bed, THE SHOWER. It's been terrifying.
However, Javid has finally found a resting spot: right next to the mirror where I do my hair and make up. Each day, as Javid stares deep into my soul, I silently ask Javid, "Is today the day? Is today the day that I do something crazy?"
He never responds. You know, because he's just a picture mounted on a piece of cardboard. But I dare say, he'd be eager to say "Yes, Mandy. Be extraordinary." if he could.

Finals Week Rant

Finals week is basically the worst. Not due to the constant cramming of information you have no intention of retaining, or the early mornings and the late nights. I can handle studying and sleep deprivation (as well as can be expected, I mean). I just can't handle everyone else.
I become jealous fairly easy. Sometimes I hate infants because they look cute in PJ's, and sometimes I despise old people because they are allowed to say crazy things and not be questioned. I don't know. Anyways, I just get remarkably jealous of the people who spend their day actually doing things, instead of studying. I don't understand how it works. Why aren't they hysterical yet? Why haven't they started crying because they don't understand the Calvin cycle? Why haven't they eaten an entire jar of peanut butter in one sitting? Gosh, why did they actually shower this morning?
I don't think I'll ever understand how some people can earn good grades on their finals, while also maintaining their hygiene. That's okay, I guess. Because someday, I'll look back on this experience and...still be really annoyed that they survived finals week.

Testing Center

I erase the tick marks to the side of each problem carefully. I brush the fuzzy little eraser bits off the page. I begin to stand up, but plop back down into my seat; that one question bubble I filled in looks more like a a square than a circle. EEE-EEE-EEE. My eraser squeaks  Anxious, I turn my head to make sure I haven't seriously annoyed someone, then again brush away the eraser leftovers.
The Testing Center is so remarkably quiet, one would never assume that within the large, endless room seats hundreds of nervous college students--appearing quiet and collected on the outside, but screaming and sobbing like a little girl on the inside. Really, the whole experience is nerve-racking. No one in this building is happy, and the second you make their life worse, by tripping over their backpack or erasing a test problem with a very squeaky eraser,  these unhappy souls begin silently plotting your death.
That's why I am terrified. I mean, I already want to begin sobbing since I'm taking a test for on information I don't ever recall learning and in a class whose name I can't even remember, and so these menacing souls, in this gloomy, silent building really aren't helping my emotional health.

Soup

"Okay. Looks like we've got..umm. Yeah, we've got our veggies. Umm...chicken. Chicken broth. Butter....That's basically everything we need, right?" Jami begins mentally visualizing the ingredients list for her Gnocchi soup. 

"Jami? What is...HOLY COW!" Before me sits a gallon of heavy cream. 

"Jami. Do we really need all this?" Holy smokes, that is a lot...A LOT... of cream.

"Well, yeah. We're feeding 12 people, most of them very hungry men, so I decided that I would just triple the recipe." I begin to nod my head in support, but in reality I wish I could say, "Good heavens, what are you thinking? Do you realize how many calories you will be pouring into that little soup pan? Do you realize you're potentially shortening the lifespan of ever young man you're feeding tonight?" But I instead just say, "Right, umm. Yeah, good call." 

Thirty minutes later, the soup is bubbling, making the sounds of an angry sea monster with an unsettled stomach (probably because the insane amount of calories that was in his dinner!). 

"Uhh. UHHHH, Jami?" I squeal in a nervous voice. The soup, still void of the noodles, chicken, and broth, looks like it's going to spill onto our stove top, like a slow, sluggish avalanche of cream-colored snow.

We're all a bunch of inexperienced college students, so we begin to scream.

Yep, we're still screaming.

Boys are Gross. (haha, I think I have several posts with that same title. Hmm)

This isn't a blog post, or an opportunity to develop my literary craft--it's my chance to vent. I don't want to write about the few leaves that are left clinging on the broken, winter trees, and how that's a metaphor for something truly inspirational. I don't want to infuse my writing with alliteration or sensory clues. I want to infuse my writing with my anger towards men. Boys are gross. Can I just say that? Because, well, they are. Sorry. I have never been appealing to boys. My one and only claim to fame was at the 6th grade dance, where my dance card was the first to be filled, out of the whole entire grade. It was kind of a big deal. It still kind of is, actually.
But besides that one, brief moment where I was worth something to pre-pubescent little boys, I've been overlooked. Throughout High School, my many guy friends came to talk to me because they viewed me as a "mother figure." Yep, that one sure helped my self-esteem sky-rocket. And if I wasn't a mother of teen boys, I was viewed as a valuable spy in covert affairs. My best friends PAID (or bribed and blackmailed) their friends to ask me to dances, so that I could be in their dance group and get juicy gossip from their dates during their trips to the restroom. Yes, my sole reason for being asked to dances was because I had the ability to retrieve gossip from hormonal little girls. That, too, really was an aid in my confidence level.
Fast-forward to college, and suddenly boys are interested in me? Whatever. I don't believe it. However, I'm not going to stop them from taking me on dates. You see, I didn't get a cut of that money during my stint as a spy. So, I think that I deserve some reward, and if that means I get reimbursed in over-priced hot chocolate...so be it.