(no subject)
True story: I have sitting on my bed three printed, bound copies of my thesis. I also have in a sleeve, reformatted to honors-college-approved standards, a copy of the same. Without title page, epigraph, and other such silliness, it is a full 146 pages. Son, that's fucking ridiculous. I shit you not.
I have also completed the last paper I will ever write as an undergraduate. I am half finished with the last take-home exam I will ever prepare as an undergraduate. After that, I will print out the last article I will ever discuss in a seminar as an undergraduate. Tomorrow I will go to my last day of classes as an undergraduate. On Thursday, at ten in the morning, I become an "adult." I accept "responsibility." I am excited for the ending. But there's something else, too; there's this becoming. Cold fingers are coming after me.
I am scared. But that, I guess, is another story for another time. Another venue.
Tabula rasa.
I have also completed the last paper I will ever write as an undergraduate. I am half finished with the last take-home exam I will ever prepare as an undergraduate. After that, I will print out the last article I will ever discuss in a seminar as an undergraduate. Tomorrow I will go to my last day of classes as an undergraduate. On Thursday, at ten in the morning, I become an "adult." I accept "responsibility." I am excited for the ending. But there's something else, too; there's this becoming. Cold fingers are coming after me.
I am scared. But that, I guess, is another story for another time. Another venue.
Tabula rasa.