Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Approaching the end

Here I sit, dazed and angry at the turn of events which inevitably seem to manifest themselves toward semester's end--the term paper, the oh-so-lovely roommates, the 'I better kick it up a notch' worries. You all know them. You all have been there. And, if you're like me, you all hate them.

After what I judged a fairly productive majority of the semester, I feel myself not giving a tinker's damn in the last 24 to 48 hours. And here's why:

To begin, I was diagnosed with some heart condition this past week. That, in itself, is not where I'm looking to gain the pity. The pity, my friends, and the root of my frustration is the ramification of having to kick a five-year habit: smoking cigarettes. And to any ex-fellow smokers, you can understand the violent agitation that accompanies being without your little cancer sticks. So, this morning--my first official smoke-free morning--came the first true test. My first break, 8:50-10:05, is when I used to grab a copy of "The Gamecock," find a suitable perch outside and yes, light the first morning cig. But not this morning. Instead, I distracted myself with superfluous tomfooleries until my next class. Then came the second break and time to register for spring classes.

With cravings intensifying and my tolerance level toward humans dwindling, one can imagine the sheer aggrivation of dealing with blackboard, the registrar's office and of course, the unavailability of all journalism classes. After enrolling in only two classes--none of which was journalism-related--I gave up, put myself on the waiting lists and smirked at the entire registering process. If it's meant to be, I thought, then it's meant to be. Besides, what good would it have done to march into the front office and deal with the three daunting ladies who seem to run this journalism school? None. Now, let's move on.

As the afternoon wore on and with no cigarettes and no classes, my mortar board reminded me of my final chemistry test the following morning. Instead of studying that afternoon, I opted to get some advice from Dr. Phil on marital fidelity, see Oprah give millions of dollars away and watch a special on the U.S. Secret Service--interesting stuff. After the six o'clock newscast, it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty. I opened my book, looked at the pages and realized I had no clue how to distinguish a sphingophospholipid from a plain ol' phospholipid. Reasoning like only a burnt-out college student can, I decided an 'F' on tomorrow's test would still leave me with a 'C' in the class. Yes, an average 'C', but looking at the grand scheme of things, what would it matter that I failed one college chemistry test. And perhaps one day, I could relate to my own child's sinister choice just as my dad had done with me that very afternoon. So, my decision was final: no studying and back to the drawing table, my couch.

To top off an already wonderful day, I decided to check my monetary supply. Now, of course, there are negative temperatures and negative feelings, but NOT negative monies. My check, made payable to Sce&g, must have "gone through" a little quicker than expected, leaving me 11 bucks in the hole. Great, that should be a fun call home tomorrow. Indeed, this money mis-hap will further my house confinement of watching Friends re-runs and eating ramen noodles.

The evening was getting late, and I asked myself, 'WWLD?' (What Would Larry David Do). Larry David, of course, was the producer of my all-time favorite sitcom Seinfeld and the star of HBO's Curb Your Enthusiam. I bargained that the master of cynicism and logical world outlook would find solace explaining his ever-so-inconsequential problems to whoever would listen. So friends, thanks for reading!

Graeme





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