Raising the blinds to Thursday morning’s fog was disappointing once I had checked the forecast and looked forward to the sun. This semester feels particularly caffienated to compensate for the extreme lack of sleep that I think is supposed to be reserved for underclassmen. Aren’t seniors supposed to relax?
But my sister used to tell me that if you rest, you rust and my rusty fingers typing this in a near-campus cafe realize that I haven’t written in quite some time for anything other than assignments that no one will read beyond May 13 and classes that I won’t remember in one year let alone 10.
One hundred days to graduation passes, and I start counting down from the Friday hundred-days benchmark. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-how many days has it been since I lost track? A few months ago I was counting down impatiently, waiting to explore something new and find a life elsewhere.
Now, it’s not so much innocent anticipation as it is some bittersweet combination of simultaneously adoring all of you and deeply hating it when you step on my toes in the Art History building.
—By Chloe Orwitz