If you’re counting on the final exam to salvage your lousy grade, and particularly if you don’t spend as much time studying for the last in-term exam as you should because you figure you’ll have more time to study later, you should make sure there’s going to BE a final earlier than, say, the morning of.
The look on my face right now is priceless.
Gritten? Gritted? Grit. This is the South, after all.
I have 1500 more words to write about Polybius, then 2400 more about Sallust and Plutarch. Then I really ought to learn some PDEs before tomorrow’s exam.
Suddenly I feel compelled to organize my kitchen. I can see the mess from here. I would also like a chili cheese coney and many many tater tots and a hot fudge sundae and some chocolate cake and a donut.
I will not get up. Will not will not will not.
My last class of the semester was this past Monday, and my finals will be Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of next week. That would make this week my first wee taste of the glorious freedom of summer—before it’s snatched away by summer school, that is.
It’s not been a bad week so far, though it has flown by. I’ve had exactly one thing to do every single day except Wednesday, usually teaching in the evenings in random far-off suburbs. It’s mildly annoying to have to plan my relaxing around evening appointments, but I’ve managed somehow. At least it gets me showered and dressed and out into the sunlight every day, which can’t be a bad thing.
