Finals, I will kick your collective butt

I changed my mind, I will totally relish these last six days despite the finals that will either make or break this semester. I woke up to an email from my humanities professor with my latest paper grade attached . . . despite convincing myself that I'd certainly gotten no higher than a C, I aced it and could only laugh. So now it's time for a clean sweep of these crazy classes because when I'm sitting across from my grandfather at dinner on Christmas Eve and he asks me about my grades, I am determined to both shock and delight the crowd with my results and that's all I have to say about that!

Finals week lament

I want to go home so badly. Seven more days . . .

A photo collage with a subtle theme

Hooooo-boy!

Alright, this is it . . . I'm working on my last paper of the semester, which is due tomorrow morning in my Woody Guthrie class. As I told John earlier, the only thought keeping me productive is the fact that if I don't finish this paper on hobos, I will likely become one. I'm using hobo songs to talk about their lifestyles and impact on American history and culture; it's honestly really interesting stuff but I am just so darn sick of writing papers. All I can think about is tomorrow at 10:20, at which point I will put down my pencil and do absolutely no work for the entire weekend simply on principle.

This picture was one of the first search results when I did a Google ImageSearch of 'hobo' . . . sorry if it's slightly offensive, but I had to attach it. I laughed for a good minute when I saw it, which may or may not indicate sleep deprivation. Back to banjos and bindles.

Post script: a bindle is that bundle of stuff on the end of a stick that you always associate with hobos. All I can say is that there better be a "HOBO TRIVIA" category when I'm a contestant on Jeopardy! one of these days.

Final stretch

I just want to live to see my twentieth birthday, which requires hanging on for less than a week. I am only sixteen written pages and a story revision away. It can happen.

The kid sitting at the table next to me in the library may not be as lucky. If he keeps giving his friend a play-by-play recap of last night's World of Warcraft adventure, I may have to slay his sorry self.