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For as long as I’ve been in college, second semester senior year has always been touted as a joke; a time when you’re cruising through on autopilot, end in sight, without grades mattering because you’ve already accepted your job offer. Unfortunately for me, my drunk, lazy ass chose to schedule ample time for blacking out on Tuesday nights all throughout college during easy 12-15 credit semesters. Not only do I not have a job lined up, but now I’m taking 18 credits of highly intensive classes just to graduate on time.
So as I sit here writing this, anxiety through the roof, with my teacher continuously glaring at me expecting some sort of intelligible contribution to the class discussion about Prometheus or whatever book I was surely supposed to have bought by now, the only words running through my head are those of the great literary scholar Marshawn Lynch – “I’m just here so I won’t get fined.”
I couldn’t give a flying fuck about this class or the prepubescent sophomores who prematurely ejaculate when they’re about to discover the story’s motif (and again when they excitedly shoot their hand up and get called on in class to be the hero). I would drop this class in a second if I could, and if attendance wasn’t mandatory I would just check the syllabus from the comfort of my living room every few weeks to make sure I haven’t missed too many papers or whatever. On Day 1 I elected to take it pass/fail, so really there’s no incentive to even put forth an honest effort. “Cs get degrees” has never felt more true.
In similar fashion, when I find myself finally getting out of these classes — looking forward to going home to procrastinate on work and job apps by smoking a spliff and jerking off — my phone oftentimes starts getting blown up by the fraternity GroupMe.
“Everyone pay your fucking dues.”
“Chapter tonight – mandatory.”
“Guys we really need volunteers to go to the university anti-hazing seminar.”
I find it funny having guys two or three years younger than me trying to get me to do shit. As a second semester senior, I put my time in for this bullshit long before the thought of joining my fraternity even crossed their young minds. I honestly can’t be bothered anymore at this point. At the end of the day, it all comes back to Mr. Lynch’s philosophy. The only way you’ll see me do anything I don’t want to this late in the game is if you’re literally fining me if I don’t do it.
Really the only difference between me and Marshawn Lynch right now is that he’s got millions in the bank and I have a bar tab almost as high as last month’s credit card statement. At least I probably have one or two less head injuries going for me..
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